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Photographic 

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Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


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y 

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itails 
t  du 
odifier 
une 
mage 


Th«  copy  filmtd  h«r«  hu  bMn  rtprodueod  thank* 
to  th«  g«n«ro*ity  of: 

D.  B.  Weldon  Library 
University  of  Wettem  Ontario 

Tho  ImagM  appoaring  har*  ara  tha  baat  quality 
poMibIa  eonaidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  Icaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spacificationa. 


Original  copiaa  in  printad  papar  covara  ara  filmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  lut  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
sion,  or  tha  bacic  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  filmad  baginning  on  tha 
firat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
•ion,  and  anding  on  tha  iaat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  impraaaion. 


Tha  Iaat  racordad  frama  on  aach  microficha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  -^  (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  "7  (moaning  "END"), 
whichavar  applias. 

IMapa,  platas,  charts,  ate.  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  includad  in  ona  axpoaura  ara  filmad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  comar,  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framas  aa 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illuatrata  tha 
mathod: 


L'axamplaira  film*  fut  raproduit  grica  j  la 
gAnirositi  da: 

D.  B.  Waldon  Library 
Univenity  of  Western  Ontario 


Laa  imagaa  suh^antaa  ont  tt6  raproduitaa  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  l'axamplaira  film4,  at  mn 
conformity  avac  laa  conditiona  du  contrst  da 
filmaga. 

Laa  axamplairaa  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  aat  imprimAa  sont  filmis  an  commandant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darnlAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaisn  ou  d'iiluatration,  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  la  caa.  Toua  laa  autraa  axamplairaa 
originaux  sont  filmis  an  commandant  par  la 
premiAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraasion  ou  d'lllustration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darniira  paga  qui  comporta  una  taila 
amprainta. 

Un  daa  symbolaa  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
darniira  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha,  salon  la 
caa:  la  symbols  — ^  signifia  "A  SUIVRE",  la 
aymbola  V  signifia  "FIN". 

Laa  cartaa,  planchas,  tablaaux,  ate,  pauvant  Atra 
fiimia  A  daa  taux  da  rMuction  diffirents. 
Lorsqua  la  documant  aat  trop  grand  pour  Atra 
raproduit  an  un  saul  clichA,  il  est  film*  A  partir 
da  I'angia  sup«>riaur  gaucha,  da  gaucha  A  droita, 
at  da  haut  an  bas,  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagas  nAcassaira.  Las  diagrammas  luivants 
illustrant  la  mAthoda. 


ratt 


elure, 
A 


: 


2X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ADRIFT: 


A  STORY  OF  NIAGARA. 


BY 


JULIA    DITTO    YOUNG. 


'M 


PHILADELPHIA. 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY. 
1889 


Copyright,  1889,  by  J.  B,  Lippincott  Company. 


4-3GST 


ta 
Vlilliam  Bean  HotnelU. 


ADRIFT: 


A    STORY    OF    NIAOARA. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  And  wherever  we  turn,  and  whatever  we  do, 
Still  that  horrible  sense  of  the  dijH  connu." 

Owen  Meredith. 


On  a  certain  April  evening  a  year  or  so  ago  the 
city  of  Buffalo  had  evidently  incurred  the  displeasure 
of  the  powers  who  dispense  the  weather,  and  was 
suffering — shall  we  say  as  usual  ? — all  the  outrages 
which  Boreas,  Frey,  and  the  other  storm-creators 
could  inflict.  The  wind  howled  and  tore  through 
the  trees  as  if  anxious  to  strip  them  of  their  early 
buds,  and  to  a  fanciful  observer  the  incessant  rain 
might  have  seemed  like  a  cruel  and  heavy  lash  laid 
upon  the  few  shrinking  pedestrians. 

There  were  doubtless  numerous  tenements  in  the 
city  whose  inmates  were  incommoded  by  the  tem- 
pest, inasmuch  as  the  chill  breath  of  the  wind 
through  crevice  and  keyhole  is  not  a  welcome  vis- 
itor, and  as  water  has  a  disagreeable  tendency  to 
trickle  through  pervious  roofs.  But  there  were  also 
many  residences,  on  the  contrary,  whose  internal 
comfort  was  only  enhanced  by  the  contrast  between 

3 


ADRIFT. 


the  cold  and  damp  without  and  the  light,  heat,  and 
fragrance  within.  Among  the  latter  was  a  small  house 
in  a  fashionable  street,  owned  and  occupied  by  Mr. 
John  Forrester,  a  gentleman  who  had  been  destined 
by  his  parents  to  adorn  the  legal  profession,  but  who 
had  after  a  few  years'  trial  abandoned  it  for  the 
more  immediately  lucrative  occupation  of  banker  and 
broker.  The  emoluments  of  his  chosen  calling  had 
been  considerable,  and  now,  in  his  thirtieth  year,  he 
was  able  to  live  in  a  style  which  was  the  height  of 
luxury  compared  with  the  manner  of  his  existence 
a  decade  previous.  It  was  very  much  to  his  gratifi- 
cation that  this  result  had  been  obtained  without  in- 
tense application  to  books  or  any  burning  of  the 
midnight  oil  except  that  consumed  in  social  and 
convivial  gatherings. 

"  The  beauty  of  my  business,"  he  was  wont  to  say, 
"  is  that  it's  not  necessary  to  crowd  the  mind  with 
unimportant  facts.  I'm  not  required  to  say  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice  who  it  was  that  discovered  the  circu- 
lation of  the  blood,  or  in  what  year  Martin  Luther 
was  born,  or  to  air  my  ignorance  of  Magna  Charta. 
No ;  I  let  the  dead  past  slip  by,  and  concern  myself 
only  with  the  things  of  this  hour,  or  at  most  the 
things  of  this  week  or  this  month.  I  read  the  news- 
papers, of  course, — in  them  we  find  the  cream  of  all 
literature,  ancient  and  modern,  separated  from  the 
skim-milk  of  metaphor  anJ  poetry,  and  expressed  in 
that  terse  American  vernacular  which  beats  all  other 
languages  for  going  straight  to  the  point !" 

Such  being  Mr.  Forrester's  opinion,  it  was  but 
natural  that  on  this  rainy  April  evening  he  should 


ADRIFT, 


t 


be  reading  a  newspaper.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
would  have  been  equally  surprising  to  find  him 
seated  in  a  room  so  well  supplied  with  books  as  al- 
most to  deserve  the  title  of  librnry,  only  that  the 
partner  of  his  home  was  a  lady  whose  views  on  this 
as  on  most  other  subjects  were  diametrically  opposed 
to  her  lord's,  Mrs.  Forrester  being  intensely,  impar- 
tially devoted  to  French,  German,  and  English  liter- 
ature. 

The  room  was  well  furnished,  and  littered  with 
works  of  art  in  various  stages  of  progress.  An 
Ariadne,  lumpy  and  dropsical-looking,  reclined  on 
the  mantel-shelf,  incompletely  evolved  from  the  sur- 
rounding clay.  A  heap  of  bright  silks  lay  on  a  table 
beside  a  piece  of  ruby  plush,  one  incipient  bud 
thereon  alone  revealing  that,  fortune  favoring,  its 
lustrous  surface  would  some  time  be  enriched  by  a 
spray  of  wild  roses.  On  an  easel  in  the  corner  was 
a  half-finished  crayon  head  of  Dante ;  the  unskilful 
draughtsman  having  been  unable  to  reproduce  the 
well-known  melancholy  droop  of  mouth  and  eyelids, 
the  great  Florentine's  usual  lugubrious  expression 
was  replaced  by  a  sort  of  smirk  which  could  not  fail 
to  make  the  judicious  grieve.  Besides  these  articles 
and  the  implements  required  in  their  execution, 
books,  letters,  pamphlets,  and  newspapers  were 
strewn  about  in  a  careless  confusion  from  which 
one  might  infer  the  presiding  genius  of  the  apart- 
ment to  be  a  woman  of  versatile  tastes  and  manifold 
intellectual  resources,  as  well  as  a  very  untidy  house- 
keeper. 

Mr.  Forrester  brought  to  the  perusal  of  his  news- 

I* 


i 


ADRIFT^ 


paper  the  same  habits  which  made  him  a  successful 
business-man.  He  knew  instinctively  what  items 
would  appeal  to  his  interest,  and  read  those  only ; 
but  read  them,  whether  trivial  or  important,  with  a 
quick  and  thorough  mental  grasp  which  lefl  in  his 
memory  not  a  series  of  shadowy  impressions,  but  a 
distinct  array  of  facts.  Having  thus  mastered  every- 
thing that  was  of  value  to  him  in  the  paper,  he  folded 
it  neatly  and  put  it  down  on  the  table,  across  which 
he  looked  in  silence  for  some  moments  at  his  wife. 

Presently  she  also  laid  aside  her  book, — a  novel  in 
French, — and  remarked  in  that  language  that  she 
was  bored,  weary,  and  sad.  Mrs.  Forrester  rarely 
resorted  to  a  foreign  tongue  to  express  her  senti- 
ments; never,  indeed,  unless  with  the  express  pur- 
pose of  annoying  her  husband.  On  this  occasion 
she  was  foiled  in  the  endeavor,  for  he  replied  only 
by  an  amiable  and  interrogative  smile,  whereat  she 
relented  and  observed  in  English, — 

"Jack,  I'm  tired,  I'm  stupid,  I'm  unhappy! 
There's  no  pleasure  to  be  had  out  of  books  any 
more ;  they  get  duller  every  year." 

"  That's  my  own  opinion  precisely  1"  Mr.  Forres- 
ter began,  with  emphasis ;  but  he  was  promptly  in- 
terrupted by  his  wife,  who  seldom  let  any  statement 
pass  unchallenged,  even  when  it  was  in  direct  con- 
firmation of  her  own  views. 

"  John  Forrester,  I'm  surprised  at  your  temerity  l" 
she  said,  severely.  "  You  to  say  one  word  against 
books, — you,  that  never  open  one,  except  check- 
books and  ledgers!  When  I  say  they  get  duller 
every  year,  I  merely  mean  they  seem  so  to  me." 


R^ 


ADRIFT. 


St 


1 


"  Perhaps,  my  dear,  you  read  too  much,"  sug- 
gested the  gentleman,  tentatively. 

"  Nonsense,  Jack  1  I  read  compaiatively  little  now. 
Two  novels  a  day  was  my  allowance  a  year  ago; 
but  they  have  lately  palled  upon  me  so  that  I  can 
hardly  read  one  a  week  through  to  the  bitter  end. 
Even  in  my  best  estate  I  could  never  bring  myself  to 
begin  at  the  beginning." 

"  How  ivould  it  do  to  read  something  solid, — some 
government  reports  or  common  council  proceed- 
ings?" said  Mr.  Furrester,  still  tentatively. 

This  was  acknowledged  only  by  a  derisive  glance. 
"  No,"  continued  the  lady ;  "  I  know  perfectly  well 
what  is  the  matter  with  me, — I  have  not  enough  to 
do.  My  brain  and  hands  are  alike  idle.  These  last 
few  years,  since  my  life  has  been  devoid  of  real,  use- 
ful occupation,  I  have  not  felt  contented  at  all.  I 
have  actually  been  thinking.  Jack,  that  I  should  like 
to  dismiss  the  girls  and  do  my  own  work  again." 

'^ Again,  Bella  ?  I  was  under  the  impression  that 
when  we  formerly  dispensed  with  servants  the  work 
simply  wasn't  done  at  all." 

Mrs.  Forrester,  lost  in  a  maze  of  agreeable  memo- 
ries, ignored  this  interpolation.  "And  you  know, 
Jack,"  she  went  on,  musingly,  "  that  after  our  little 
dinners  were  over " 

"  And  very  little  dinners  they  used  to  be,  too !" 
said  Jack,  with  a  retrospective  groan.  "You  didn't 
do  much  cooking,  Bella;  I  was  a  living — no,  an  al- 
most dead  proof  of  that.  Though,  to  do  you  justice, 
I  must  say  I  never  saw  your  equal  at  getting  up  a 
meal  of  tea  and  soda-crackers." 


8 


ADRIFT. 


"  Well,  anyway,  after  dinner  I  would  change  my 
dress  and  sit  down  at  my  desk  all  alone,  and  go 
slowly  through  the  French  grammar." 

"  I  highly  approve  of  that  portion  of  your  project. 
I  don't  think  you  are  nearly  as  proficient  in  French 
as  you  pretend  to  be,  and  it  would  certainly  be  bene- 
ficial to  you  to  go  through  the  grammar  again." 

*'  Of  course  I  do  not  dream  of  doing  that !"  in- 
stantly rejoined  the  lady.  "  But  I  have  lately  felt 
profoundly  interested  in  Dante,  and  I  don't  see  why 
I  should  not  read  him  in  the  original." 

"  Now,  Bella,  just  stop  right  where  you  are!"  said 
her  husband,  vainly  endeavoring  to  impart  an  angry 
and  authoritative  ring  to  his  pleasant  voice.  "  Long 
self-discipline,  long  humbling  of  a  naturally  proud 
spirit,  has  at  last  enabled  me  to  listen  patiently  to 
unintelligible  remarks  in  French  and  German ;  but  I 
draw  the  line  at  Italian  !" 

"  Ah,  well,  that's  not  'Essential.  I  won't  quarrel 
about  a  trifle " 

"  No  ?  Really,  Bella,  you  are  certainly  not  your- 
self if  you  do  not  seize  upon  any  pretext  whatever 
for  quarrelling !" 

"  The  main  thing  I  am  anxious  about,"  explained 
Mrs.  Forrester,  with  a  good  deal  of  earnestness,  "  is 
whether  it  would  or  would  not  be  a  good  thing  for 
me  to  do  my  own  housework  again.  I  often  feel  as 
if  my  mission  in  life  was  no  higher  than  washing 
dishes." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  convinced  that  your 
genius  does  not  at  all  find  its  fitting  medium  of  ex- 
pression in  that  homely  employment,"  said  Mr.  For- 


1 


ADRIFT. 


iK 


raster,  solemnly.  "  You  can  do  anything  better  than 
washing  dishes.  Don't  trouble  yourself  to  reply, 
Bella, — the  shock  of  finding  you  for  once  in  accord 
with  me  might  unhinge  my  reason." 

Bella  laughed,  somewhat  reluctantly.  "To  tell 
the  truth.  Jack,"  she  confessed,  "  If  I  were  so  unfor- 
tunate as  to  engage  a  servant  who  would  break  and 
burn  and  tear  things  in  the  reckless  fashion  that  I 
used  to  do,  I  wouldn't  keep  the  creature  in  the 
house  two  hours."  She  ceased  to  laugh,  and,  let- 
ting her  serious  eyes  rest  on  her  husband's,  said, 
gravely,  "  I'm  p>ositively  ashamed  to  tell  you  this, 
Jack,  it's  so  absurd,  so  grotesque :  but  do  you  know 
nothing  brings  back  so  plainly  the  dear  old  times, 
the  early  years  of  our  marriage,  as  to  smell  in  the 
street  the  odors  of  scorching  cake  or  potatoes  or 
milk  escaping  from  some  kitchen.  I  knew  these 
scents  so  well  of  old  I  can  distinguish  them  all." 

"  You  won't  mind  my  mentioning  what  I  con- 
ceive to  be  the  best  result  of  your  culinary  efforts, 
Bella  ?  They  enabled  me  to  acquire  a  peculiar  gas- 
tronomic accomplishment :  I  can  never  be  deceived 
in  a  restaurant,  in  my  own  house,  or  at  a  friend's 
table ;  I  know  unerringly  when  a  thing  is  ill- 
cooked  I" 

Bella  joined  in  his  laugh  at  this,  but  after  a  mo- 
ment she  said,  soberly, — 

"Jack,  I'm  really  unhappy,  and  you  don't  help 
me ;  you  don't  suggest  anything." 

"  You  know,  dear,  you  wouldn't  pay  the  least  at- 
tention to  anything  I  did  suggest,"  her  husband  said, 
gently. 


10 


ADRIFT. 


"  No,  of  course  not ;  still,  I  should  like  to  hear 
what  you  have  to  say." 

"  Well,  then,  Bella,  as  for  letting  t'  :  servants  go, 
you  would  he  ready  in  a  week's  time  to  crawl  on 
your  hands  and  knees  from  the  Terrace  to  Cold 
Spring  to  get  them  back  again.  It's  altogether  out 
of  the  question.  Why  don't  you  complete  some  of 
the  work  you  have  lying  about  here  ?  I  wish  you 
had  a  little  of  my  industry  and  zeal,  dear;  whatever 
I  happen  to  be  doing  seems  to  be  for  the  time  the 
most  interesting  and  valuable  thing  in  the  world. 
Finish  your  mirthful  Dante  over  there,  for  instance ; 
subdue  his  risible  muscles." 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  me  ?"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Forrester,  with  flashing  eyes.  ''  Is  that  the 
best  advice  you  can  offer  to  a  perplexed  and  dis- 
tracted mind,  the  best  balm  you  can  provide  for  a 
stung  and  tortured  soul  ?  Finish  my  mirthful  Dante, 
indeed  !     Yes,  I  will  finish  him, — behold  I" 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  snatched  the  portrait  from 
the  easel,  stabbed  an  eraser  several  times  through 
Dante's  abnormally  cheerful  countenance,  and,  crump- 
ling the  paper,  tl  rew  it  into  the  blazing  grate.  Then 
she  rang  the  bell,  and  when  the  servant  appeared 
thrust  into  her  hands  the  embryonic  embroidery. 

"There,  Mary!  cut  the  plush  in  two  and  give 
half  of  it  to  cook ;  it  will  make  you  each  a  lovely 
bonnet  next  fall.  And  take  the  silks  too ;  I'll  give 
you  some  pieces  to-morrow,  and  you  can  begin  a 
crazy  quilt.     Let  it  be  your  lifcwork." 

Mary  began  to  stammer  her  thanks,  but  Mrs. 
Forrester  cut  her  short  and  dismissed  her  from  the 


-IS   ^ 


ADRIFT. 


II 


room.  She  bethought  herself,  however,  to  call  after 
the  retreating  g'rl — a  somewhat  lavish  generosity 
towards  domestics  having  taughf-  her  that  that  class 
appreciate  gifts  exactly  in  proportion  to  their  money 
value — that  the  plush  was  six  dollars  a  yard.  Then 
she  looked  around  for  fresh  opportunities  of  icoiio- 
clasm. 

"  There's  your  Ariadne  with  the  Mtimt>s*'  sug- 
gested Mr.  Forrester,  entering  into  his  wife's  spiri^. 
"  I'll  help  you  to  demolish  it.  It's  quite  in  my  line, — 
broke  her, — see  ? 

He  put  Ariadne  on  the  tiled  hearth  and  glanced 
about  in  search  of  some  weapon  that  might  serve  as 
the  beheading  axe. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  Hezekiah  destroying  the  Isra- 
elites' gods ;  only  I  never  cared  for  the  things,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Forrester.  "  No,  it's  more  like  the 
execution  of  Marie  Stuart. — Ah !"  as  the  poker 
neatly  struck  off  Ariadne's  head.  "  It's  too  realistic. 
I  wish  I  hadn't  let  you  do  it,  Jack  !" 

Jack  regarded  his  wife  with  eyes  that  were  only 
half  amused.  "  I  never  heard  of  an  imagination  to 
beat  yours,  Bella,"  he  observed.  "  Fancy  detecting 
any  resemblance  between  the  human  form  divine  and 
this  thing!" 

When  he  had  reduced  the  statuette  to  fragments, 
he  strolled  aimlessly  about  the  room  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, in  an  undecided  manner  very  unusual  with 
him,  casting  several  hesitant  glances  towards  Mrs. 
Forrester,  which  she  carefully  avoided  meeting. 
Finally  he  went  out  into  the  hall  and  put  on  his 
hat  and  overshoes. 


12 


ADRIFT. 


"  Going  out,  Jack  ?"  inquired  his  wife,  indifferently. 

"  Only  for  a  little  while.  You  do  not  mind,  do 
you,  dear?" 

"  Certainly  not !" 

"Allow  me  to  give  you  due  credit,  Bella,  for  a 
decided  reform  in  this  matter  recently,"  said  Mr. 
Forrester,  donning  his  overcoat.  "  It's  not  very 
loiig  ago  that  you  entered  a  violent  protest  against 
my  ever  going  out  in  the  evening.  Now  it  doesn't 
seem  to  make  the  least  difference  to  you." 

*'  He  has  noticed  it  at  last !"  was  Mrs.  Forrester's 
inward  thought.  Aloud  she  said,  "  You  are  sure 
you  like  the  changCj  Jack  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do !"  he  said,  warmly.  "  It's  a 
magnificent  thing  to  feel  one's  marriage  only  a 
convenience  and  a  pleasure,  not  a  fetter!"  He 
came  in,  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead  as  she 
reclined  in  her  chair,  and  went  out  into  the  rainy 
night.  * 

Mrs.  Forrester  sat  quite  still  where  ne  left  her, 
gazing  into  the  fire  with  a  moody,  cloudy  face  which 
indicated  that  her  mind  was  "  plunged  in  a  gulf  of 
dark  despair."  She  was,  indeed,  very  unhappy,  the 
more  so,  perhaps,  because  she  had  nothing  on  earth 
to  be  unhappy  about;  she  often  acknowledged  to 
herself  that  if  she  had  a  real  grief  to  meet  and  battle 
with  she  could  never  be  so  wretched  over  it  as  she 
was  over  her  imaginary  woes.  She  understood  per- 
fectly that  her  discontent  sprang  partly  from  idleness, 
and  had  for  some  years  found  relief  in  social  duties 
and  severe  intellectual  pursuits,  but  both  these  dis- 
tractions had  ceased  for  some  time  to  interest  her. 


ADRIFT.  I A 

She  had  taken  up,  one  after  another,  several  occu- 
pations which  delighted  many  of  her  acquaintances, 
and  not  until  this  evening  had  she  admitted  their 
futility.  The  project  of  dismissing  her  servants  was 
not  more  senseless  than  a  dozen  others  she  had  ad- 
vocated with  a  view  to  providing  employment  for 
herself.  None  of  these  schemes,  hov\^ever,  had  af- 
forded her  any  satisfaction,  and  to-night  no  attraction 
occurred  to  her  sufficient  to  draw  her  eyes  from  the 
fire. 

She  was  at  that  critical  period  of  a  woman's  life — 
to  which  there  is  in  the  existence  of  a  man  no  cor- 
responding season  of  danger  and  difficulty — when 
the  illusions  of  early  youth,  the  novelty  of  marriage, 
the  first  freshness  of  love  for  her  husband,  have  worn 
off,  and  before  the  reign  of  a  peaceful,  quiet  maturity 
has  begun.  Tilany  women  are  tided  over  this  period 
by  the  cares  of  an  increasing  family,  and  their  early 
vows  of  love  and  allegiance  are  strengthened  by  the 
coming  of  children.  But  Bella  had  never  had  a 
child ;  she  had  been  an  orphan  since  her  babyhood ; 
there  was  no  one  in  particular  to  whom  she  could 
turn  and  cling ;  it  seemed  as  if  the  end  of  the  world 
had  come  and  she  was  the  last  person  in  it.  When 
her  thoughts  reverted  to  her  husband,  she  said,  im- 
patiently, "  Jack  doesn't  understanc^  me !"  with  a 
sense  at  the  same  time  that  his  not  understanding 
her  was  greatly  to  his  credit.  "  If  he  could,  I  should 
think  he  had  gone  crazy !"  she  averred.  She  her- 
self could  not  analyze  her  feelings ;  she  knew  only 
that  she  was  without  strength  or  hope,  that  she  had 

no  ambition,  no  motive  of  life,  no  guiding  principle 

a 


? 


14 


ADRIFT. 


of  conduct.  She  was  conscious  of  a  ceaseless  un- 
satisfied longing,  none  the  less  real  because  she 
knew  not  what  she  longed  for. 

She  gave  herself  up  to  these  desultory  musings 
for  some  time,  then  rose  with  a  weary  sigh,  and  after 
making  the  circuit  of  the  rooms  in  a  i  :?stless  pre- 
occupied manner  put  on  her  rubbers  and  gossamer 
and  went  out  on  the  veranda. 

There  were  wide  spaces  between  the  neighboring 
houses,  and  she  could  see  the  city  lamps  stretching 
in  a  vast  bright  circle  around  her.  Over  the  way 
figures  flitted  to  and  fro  behind  lace-draped  win- 
dcivs;  a  street-car  rattled  and  tinkled  along  in  the 
distance.  She  felt  alien  to  the  whole  multitudinous 
life  of  the  city;  the  encircling  lamps  seemed  co  hem 
her  in,  to  bar  h©r  from  seeking  a  happier  life  that 
might  lie — where  ?  Anywhere !  perhaps  just  beyond 
their  fi.ery  circle.  A  longing  to  get  away  from  all 
she  had  ever  known  possessed  her  so  fully  that  she 
had  actually  to  put  a  restraint  upon  herself  to  keep 
from  running  out  into  the  storm. 

Her  eyes  fell  upon  the  asphalt  pavement  of  the 
street, — it  looked  curiously  like  a  river  to  her,  with 
its  wide  rain-washed  surface  sparkling  and  shining 
beneath  the  long  rows  of  lamps  ;  and  there  flashed 
into  her  mind  the  thought  of  a  real  river,  and  of  a 
certain  house  upon  its  bank.  Why  should  she  not 
fly  to  that  magnificent  scene,  and  to  the  serene  at- 
mosphere of  that  house  ?  She  stood  there  thinking 
of  it  until  she  saw  Jack  hurrying  up  the  walk. 

"  I  suppose  this  ghostly  black  cloak  makes  me 
look  like  Romola?"  she  called,  lightly.     Mrs.  For- 


ADRIFT. 


n 


rester  rarely  found  herself  in  a  position  to  which  her 
varied  reading  offered  no  parallel. 

"  You  look  like  a  naughty  little  girl  who  wants 
another  attack  of  pneumonia,"  said  her  husband,  with 
as  near  an  approach  to  asperity  as  he  ever  permitted 
himself  to  apply  to  her.  He  marched  her  into  the 
house  and  took  off*  her  waterproof  and  rubbers  be- 
fore he  divested  himself  of  his  own. 

"Jack,"  said  she,  firmly,  as  one  prepared  for  oppo- 
sition, "  I  have  made  a  very  strange  resolution  thii 
evening.  I  am  going  to  spend  the  summer^  the 
whole  long  summer,  mind  you," — a  vision,  whose 
sweetness  Jack  only  half  acknowledged,  rose  before 
him,  of  one  hundred  placid  days,  one  hundred  calm 
evenings,  unruffled  by  the  tears,  smiles,  caprices, 
whims,  and  tempers  of  his  charming  wife, — "  with 
your  cousin  Diana." 

"  Gracious,  Bella !  I  thought  you  detested  my 
cousin  Diana." 

"  So  I  do ;  of  course  I  do.  But  I  like  her  as  well 
as  one  woman  ever  does  another.  The  main  point 
is  that  I'm  going  there." 

"  In  my  opinion,  the  main  point  is  that  you  are 
going  up-stairs  this  minute.  Your  hands  are  icy 
cold,  and  I  dare  say  you  have  taken  a  chill,"  said 
Mr.  Forrester,  with  unfeigned  anxiety  in  his  tones. 
"  Go  and  take  a  warm  bath,  and  before  you  are 
asleep  Til  bring  you  some  hot  brandy  and  water." 

"Very  well,"  said  Bella,  meekly.  Half-way  up- 
stairs she  paused  and  reiterated,  "  I'm  going  to 
Diana's !" 

"  All  right !"  returned  Jack.   To  himself  he  added, 


|6 


ADRIFT. 


I 

I  li- 


as he  went  in  search  of  the  brandy,  "  And  hang  me 
if  I'll  be  very  sorry  r 

A  little  later,  when  Bella  sat  up  in  bed  and  reluc- 
tantly sipped  the  contents  of  a  «teaming  goblet,  she 
said,  with  unwonted  humility  and  gratitude, — 

"  You're  too  good  to  me,  Jack ;  such  unflagging 
kindness  would  spoil  a  saint. 

'  A  woman,  a  spaniel,  and  a  walnut-tree, 
The  more  you  beat  'em,  the  better  they  be.* 

You  should  have  tried  the  knout !" 

"  Should  have,  Bella  ?  Why  do  you  speak  in  the 
past  tense  ?    Surely  it's  not  too  late  now." 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  declared  Bella;  "  ages,  eons  too  late!'* 


fi-'.  ii 


CHAPTER    II. 

'*  This  is  her  picture  as  she  was,— 
It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on, 
As  if  mine  image  in  the  glass 

Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone." 


ROSSETTI. 


That  Mrs.  Forrester  had  firmly  resolved  upon 
doing  a  tiling  was  usually  a  very  good  reason  for 
expecting  th  at  she  would  not  do  it.  It  was,  there- 
fore, with  incredulous  eyes  that  her  husband  watched 
her  elaborate  preparations  for  departure,  which 
seemed  to  him  unnecessarily  extensive  and  thor- 
ough.    He  told  her  she  had  a  good  deal  of  temerity 


ADRIFT. 


'7 


to  go  about  and  make  formal  P.  P.  C.  calls  upon  all 
her  acquaintances. 

"  You  are  going  twenty  miles " 

"  Twenty-two,  if  you  please,"  corrected  Bella,  who 
insisted  that  the  statements  of  other  people  should 
be  characterized  by  the  strict  accuracy  which  never 
marked  her  own. 

'*  Well,  twenty-two,  then ;  and  you  probably  will 
not  remain  away  more  than  three  days;  and  it  really 
does  seem  absurd  to  make  all  this  fuss.  To  judge 
from  your  impedimenta,  as  C.nesar  calls  it,  you  might 
be  going  to  Europe." 

**  Ah,  Jack,  in  one  sense  I  am  going  a  great  deal 
farther  than  that !"  said  she,  mysteriously.  He  did 
not  comprehend  her  meaning  any  more  clearly  than 
she  did  herself,  but  he  felt  Uiicoinfortable,  neverthe- 
less ;  he  recognized  thai  these  enigmatical  remarks 
tended  to  destroy  domestic  repose. 

Bella  continued  to  make  ready  for  her  sojourn 
with  a  singular  energy  and  concentration  of  purpose. 
She  renovated  and  replenished  her  wardrobe,  there 
being  no  event  with  which  a  woman  is  connected, 
whether  birth,  death,  marriage,  or  journeying,  that 
does  not  afford  a  valid  reason,  or  at  least  a  plausible 
excuse,  for  this  process.  She  discharged  the  house- 
maid and  arranged  for  the  cook  to  do  the  lessened 
labor  of  the  house.  She  locked  tlie  piano,  purchased 
an  immense  amount  of  fine  stationery, — for  she  took 
great  pride  and  pleasure  in  letter-writing, — and 
finally,  one  sunny  May  afternoon,  all  her  prepara- 
tions were  completed,  even  to  the  assumption  of  her 
travelling  dress.     She  had  summoned  her  most  in- 


w 


tf,   <\ 


i8 


ADRIFT. 


timate  friend,  Viviette  Bromley,  to  share  her  last 
luncheon  at  home,  and  that  repast  being  finished, 
the  two  sat  together  in  the  drawing-room  for  the  few 
expectant  minutes  which  always  precede  the  coming 
of  th>^  carriage. 

Mrs.  Bromley  was  both  in  person  and  character  a 
very  attractive,  lovable  woman.  She  did  not  at  all 
look  her  thirty  years,  and  her  pretty  face  bore  no 
abiding  traces  of  the  bitter  grief  she  had  felt  for  the 
loss  of  her  husband  five  years  before.  This  grief 
still  remained  a  fresh,  unhealed  wound,  and  her  in- 
ner life  was  dedicated  to  ceaseless  mourning  for  her 
dead ;  but  the  first  absorbing  bitterness  of  bereave- 
ment was  past,  and  once  more  her  heart  was  "  at 
leisure  from  itself,  to  soothe  and  sympathize."  She 
diffused  a  certain  indefinable  radiance  of  sweetness 
and  light  about  her  wherever  she  moved,  as  natu- 
rally as  a  flower  gives  forth  its  fragrance.  She  was 
incapable  of  exerting  any  influence  other  than  a 
helpful  and  blessed  one.  Her  tact  was  exquisite, 
and,  while  she  would  not  sacrifice  truth  to  flatter  a 
friend,  she  had  a  rare  and  agreeable  habit  of  saying 
only  things  which  were  delightfully  acceptable  to 
her  interlocutor ;  all  other  topics  were  eliminated  as 
by  magic  from  her  conversation.  She  was  witty 
with  the  wit  that  illumines  and  vivifies  rather  than 
scorches  and  stings.  Perhaps  her  greatest  charm 
consisted  not  in  the  comparatively  common  power 
of  making  others  forget  themselves,  but  in  winning 
them  to  dwell  upon  themselves,  to  unbosom  to  her 
their  troubles,  aspirations,  and  despairs,  and  then  re- 
warding their  confidence  by  comfort  or  encoura^je- 


1  i 


'  '.'iiiiJ  "n'mmmmmm 


ADRIFT. 


19 


ment  such  as  can  only  spring  from  a  divinely  sym- 
pathetic nature.  Every  person  who  thus  confided  iu 
Mrs.  l^romley  felt  that  his  interests  were  of  vital  im- 
portance in  her  eyes,  and  was  thenceforward  and 
forever  her  devoted  friend. 

She  had  a  slight,  girlish  figure,  dark-brown  hair, 
and  beautiful  large  eyes  of  the  same  color,  uniformly 
tender  and  gentle  in  ilieir  expression.  To  look  upon 
the  chastened  sweetness  of  her  face  was  to  be  satis- 
fied and  at  peace.  Though  so  long  a  time  had 
elapsed  since  her  husband's  death,  she  still  wore 
mourning,  and  not  even  Bella,  whose  shafts  few  es- 
caped, had  ever  dared  to  hint  that  this  protracted 
adherence  to  the  habiliments  of  woe  was  owing  to 
their  becomingness.  Nevertheless  the  fact  remains 
that  no  other  attire  would  have  been  so  becoming  to 
Mrs.  Bromley  as  her  severely  plain  black  dress,  with 
its  mute  explanation  of  the  haunting  pain  that  some- 
times made  her  brown  eyes  grow  dreamy  and  retro- 
spective. 

"  Viviette,"  said  Mrs.  Forrester,  impressively,  "  I 
shall  return  to  Buffalo  either  very  much  better — or 
very  much  worse — or  not  at  all.  ,1  will  not  come 
back  the  same  wretched,  irresolute  creature  that  I 
go.  Perhaps  you  think"  —  suspiciously — "that  I 
couldn't  be  very  much  worse  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  dear,  I  think  you  couldn't  be 
very  much  better,"  said  Viviette,  affectionately. 
"As  to  your  not  coming  back  at  all,  that  possibility 
I  refuse  to  contemplate." 

**  It's  quite  on  the  cards,  I  assure  you,"  said  Bella, 
with  gloom.     "  And  I  shouldn't  much  mind,  only  I 


f 


\ 


B.*  ! 


N 


\ 


20 


ADRIFT. 


think  you  would  miss  mc, — for  you  do  love  me  a 
little,  do  you  not,  Vivictte  ?  Now  don't  tell  me,  as 
Di.  Johnson  did  lioswcU,  to  write  down  that  you  do 
and  paste  it  where  I  can  see  it  I" 

"  Bella,  such  a  doubt  is  very  painful  to  me,"  said 
the  other,  in  tender  reproach.  "  You  know  that  I 
care  more  for  you  than  for  any  one  else  on  earth 
except  my  children !" 

"  I  never  did  really  doubt  it,  Viviette ;  I  couldn't !" 
said  Bella,  earnestly.  "  But  I  thank  you  for  the  as- 
surance just  the  same. — There's  the  carriage  I  and 
there's  Jack  I" 

Mr.  Forrester  entered  with  cordial  greetings  to 
Mrs.  Bromley  and  a  kiss  for  his  wife,  to  which  she 
submitted  meekly,  having  long  since  outlived  one  of 
her  girlhood's  dearest  theories, — namely,  that  a  kiss 
should  be  exchanged  between  married  people  only 
in  the  most  sacred  privacy,  and  that  the  presence  of 
a  third  person  at  this  sacramental  salute  was  prof- 
anation. Then  she  turned  to  the  window  and  sol- 
emnly watched  the  driver  as  he  carried  her  trunks 
down  the  walk. 

"  I  hate  to  see  a  heavy  weight  taken  away  out  of 
a  house,"  she  said,  pettishly.  **  It  reminds  me  of 
such  disagreeable  things." 

"  "hat  feeling  is  shared  by  many  people,"  said 
Mrs.  Bromley.  "  The  worst  of  all  is  seeing  a  piano 
removed  ;  you  know  it  takes  four  men  to  carry  it. — 
You  foolish  Bella,  what  are  you  shuddering  about  ? 
It  doesn't  mean  anything." 

"  It  does  in  my  case,"  insisted  Bella,  as  the  three 
went  out  to  the  carriage,  "  for  I  have  a  presentiment 


K^^j 


ADRIFT. 


ft 


that  amounts  to  a  conviction, — I  shall  never  see  my 
home  again." 

She  paused  on  the  stepping-stone  and  turned  to 
gaze  at  the  pretty  house.  The  clematis-vines  that  a 
little  later  would  veil  the  veranda  from  the  street 
were  already  putting  forth  tender  sprouts ;  dahlias 
and  lilies,  unswathed  from  their  winter  wraps,  were 
beginning  to  rejoice  in  the  spring  sunshine;  the 
little  lawn,  guiltless  of  fence,  sloped  greenly  to  her 
feet. 

"  It's  a  good  home,  and  I  have  been  very  happy 
there,"  she  said,  quietly,  no  more  heeding  the  open- 
mouthed  driver  than  if  he  had  been  a  fly.  '*  But  it's 
all  over  now, — I  shall  never  see  it  again."  She  en- 
tered the  carriage,  and  the  others,  following  her,  saw 
that  she  had  lost  color  and  that  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 

"  Bella,  Bella !  you  make  me  tired,"  said  her  hus- 
band, in  the  most  patient  and  amiable  of  tones. 
"  Plave  you  ever  gone  on  a  journey,  however  short 
and  safe,  without  making  this  same  melancholy  pre- 
diction ?" 

"  Don't  tease  her,  John,"  said  Viviette,  mischiev- 
ously, "  or  she  may  be  tempted  to  justify  her  fore- 
bodings." 

"  I  think  myself  I  had  better  not  brood  over  my 
troubles  too  much  at  Diana's,"  remarked  Bella. 
*'  They  say  that  people  come  there  from  all  over  the 
world  to  commit  suicide." 

"  To  Diana's  ?"  queried  Jack. 

"  Goodness,  no !  to  the  village.  A  lady  from 
Chicago  was  at  one  of  the  hotels  there  a  few  years 


m 


ii' 


I 


ill 


II 


Xti 


■M 


22 


ADRIFT, 


ago.  Suddenly  she  disappeared,  and  they  found  in 
her  room  a  note  saying  she  had  been  irresistibly 
impelled  to  seek  that  place  for  the  purpose  of  de- 
stroying herself." 

"Well,  it  is  certainly  a  spot  for  suicide  made 
easy,"  said  Viviette.  "  Even  if  one  goes  there  with- 
out any  such  intention  at  all,  I  think  the  fatal  facil- 
ity of  the  deed  in  itself  lures  people.  One  single 
plunge  and  the  felo-de-se  is  relieved  of  all  further 
responsibility." 

Bella  looked  with  troubled  eyes  out  upon  the 
wide,  wind-swept  streets  through  which  they  were 
rapidly  rolling.  "  I  think  it's  very  inconsiderate  of 
you,  Viviette,  to  utter  such  melancholy  prognostica- 
tions," she  declared,  gravely.  The  power  to  soundly 
rate  her  friend  was  in  her  estimation  one  of  the  dear- 
est privileges  of  their  intimacy. 

"  Viviette  never  thought  of  prophesying  anything 
whatever,"  interposed  Mr.  Forrester,  pacifically.  "  No 
one  has  a  more  wholesome  dread  of  death  than  you, 
Bella,  who  talk  so  lightly  of  it ;  and  neither  Viviette 
nor  I  would  permit  you  to  go  to  Diana's  if  we  were 
not  absolutely  certain  that  you  will  keep  well  out  of 
danger." 

While  Mrs.  Bromley  was  warmly  acquiescing  in 
this  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  depot.  Mr.  For- 
rester bought  his  wife's  ticket,  checked  her  baggage, 
and  found  her  a  pleasant  seat  in  the  train.  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  flice  of  comical  dismay. 

"  Why,  it  does  actually  seem  as  if  I  were  going, 
after  all!  I  never  realized  it  until  this  moment!" 
she  laughed. 


ADRIFT. 


23 


I.CT 


♦•No 


ent !" 


"  It's  not  too  late  to  back  out  now !"  said  Jack. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  me  to  change  my  mind  ?" 
she  cried,  disdaining  the  suggestion.  "  There's  the 
bell !  Good-by,  Jack  !  good-by,  Viviette !"  She  be- 
stowed impartial  kisses  upon  her  friend  and  husband, 
and  they  hurried  out  of  the  car,  pausing  in  the  depot 
to  wave  their  hands  at  her  and  to  watch  the  train 
move  off,  creeping  slowly  at  first,  increasing  its  speed 
with  every  rod,  and  finally  vanishing  around  a  curve 
in  a  flying  mist  of  steam  and  smoke.  Jack  drew  a 
long  breath  and  turned  to  his  companion. 

**  You  will  be  very  lonely,  John,"  she  said,  with 
unconscious  irony.  "  Will  you  dine  with  me  at  six 
this  evening?     There  are  no  inducements." 

"  You  and  the  little  girls  are  inducements  enough 
for  me,"  said  the  gentleman,  sincerely  and  gallantly. 
He  accepted  Mrs.  Bromley's  invitation  with  grati- 
tude and  escorted  her  to  the  carriage.  When  she 
had  gone  he  stood  a  {q^n  moments  on  the  sidevalk, 
glancing  idly  here  and  there.  He  was  not  irreso- 
lute,— John  Forrester  was  never  that;  he  simply 
paused  the  better  to  enjoy  the  singular  and  exquisite 
flavor  of  freedom.  Though  it  was  three  o'clock  in 
Exchange  Street, — an  exceptionally  busy  hour  and 
locality, — though  cars,  carriages,  and  pedestrians 
thronged  by  in  furious  haste,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
a  great  tranquillity  had  descended  upon  all  things. 
In  a  word,  he  was  afraid  of  his  wife  ;  he  had,  of 
course,  no  vulgar  fear  of  her  anger  or  displeasure; 
but  he  was  bound  to  her  in  the  slavery  of  the  strong 
to  the  weak.  He  was  extremely  anxious  to  under- 
stand her  moods,  constantly  on  his  guard  to  avoid 


24 


ADRIFT. 


giving  her  pain,  ever  fearful  of  disappointing  or  an- 
noying her  in  some  unforeseen  way.  The  fact  that 
in  spite  of  al'  these  precautions  Bella  was  still  un- 
happy was  the  only  cloud  upon  his  sunny,  pros- 
perous existence.  It  wafi  therefore  with  undeniable 
relief  that  he  looked  forward  to  a  brief  season 
wherein  Bella's  happiness  would  not  be  his  especial 
charge  ;  to  a  few  days  at  least  during  which  she 
would  present  no  startling  and  unexpected  demands 
on  his  patience,  forbearance,  and  tenderness.  His 
face  was  lighted  with  satisfaction,  and  as  he  walked 
up  to  his  oflfice  the  occasional  ncds  he  bestowed  on 
acquaintances  were  accompanied  by  beaming  smiles. 
Mrs.  Forrester,  left  alone,  settled  herself  com- 
fortably and  gazed  out  of  the  window.  In  common 
with  those  of  other  people,  Bella's  blessings  bright- 
ened as  they  took  their  flight,  and  at  that  moment 
she  held  the  opinion  that  the  airy  city  she  was  so 
swiftly  traversing  was  the  most  delightful  abode  on 
earth.  The  route  lay  for  a  little  distance  along  the 
beach  of  Lake  Erie ;  Bella  had  often  passed  there  on 
stormy  autumn  days  when  the  wind-tossed  waters 
were  dashed  against  the  car  windows,  but  to-day 
tiny  wavelets  lapped  peacefully  against  the  stones  of 
the  breakwater,  and  the  wide  expanse  of  the  lake 
danced  and  glittered  under  a  gentle  breeze.  A  little 
farther  on  the  lake  melted  imperceptibly  into  the 
broad,  blue,  majestic  Niagara  River.  On  its  oppo- 
site bank  lay  the  sleepy  little  village  of  Fort  Erie, 
with  its  picturesque  windmill  and  long  rows  of  pop- 
lar-trees; the  ferry-boat  was  steaming  diagonally 
across  the  rapid  current.     The  train  slipped  by  "  The 


ADRIFT.  2f 

Front,"  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  city  parks, 
on  whose  green  slope  children  were  playing,  and 
then  glided  along  in  the  sh  idow  of  the  historic  bluff, 
its  summit  crowned  with  the  gray  ruins  of  Fort 
Porter.  Bella  glanced  at  the  lumbering  canal -boats, 
and  wondered  if  any  romance  could  possibly  be  con- 
nected with  one  of  them ;  her  eyes  dwelt  appre- 
ciatively on  the  slender  emerald  length  of  Squaw 
Island;  the  willows  and  elder  bushes  growing  on 
it  seemed  almost  to  spring  from  the  bosom  of  the 
river,  so  slight  was  their  foothold  of  earth.  A  little 
later,  out  in  the  open  country,  viridescent  fields  al- 
ternated with  mile  after  mile  of  rosy  peach-orchards ; 
every  tree  was  a  light  and  fluttering  cloud  of  delicate 
pink,  and  even  the  twigs,  full  of  fresh-running  sap, 
were  a  dark  yet  vivid  red.  Bella  raised  the  window 
to  inhale  the  sweet  almond-like  odor;  she  felt  indis- 
tinctly that  she  would  be  perfectly  contented  if  she 
could  always  have  a  blossoming  peach  orchard  to 
look  at. 

She  herself  was  rather  pleasant  to  look  upon,  al- 
though her  habitual  dissatisfaction  with  all  things  of 
course  included  her  personal  appearance,  and  she 
considered  her  own  face  and  form  to  be  utterly  un- 
attractive. She  was  of  medium  height,  with  a  well- 
rounded  figure  which  only  the  most  ill-natured  of 
her  acquaintances  deemed  too  plump.  She  had  a 
great  quantity  of  auburn  hair,  whose  very  luxuriance 
was  a  source  of  annoyance  to  her,  and  a  bloomy 
complexion  that  yet  retained,  in  spite  of  her  twenty- 
seven  years,  its  pretty  childish  way  of  changing  con- 
stantly from  pink  to  white  and  back  again.  She  had 
B  3 


26 


ADR/FT. 


gray-blue  eyes,  good  teeth,  a  ready  and  engaging 
smile,  and  a  general  air  of  health  and  well-being 
which,  however  trying  to  a  young  woman  posing  as 
a  martyr,  was  yet  extremely  admirable  in  the  eyes 
of  an  unprejudiced  observer. 

Her  attire  was  invariably  selected  with  a  taste 
that  amounted  to  absolute  art.  It  might  be  inex- 
pensive, unfashionable,  or  even  careless,  but  it  was 
always  becoming.  She  had  a  fine  sense  of  color, 
not  only  instinctive,  but  also  carefully  trained,  and  it 
was  one  of  her  delights  (this  grief-stricken  creature 
had  a  surprising  number  of  them,  after  all !)  that  the 
beauty  of  color  v^'as  so  universal. 

"  It's  a  beauty  that's  always  to  be  seen !"  she  was 
accustomed  to  say  with  enthusiasm.  "  You  can't 
raise  your  eyes  without  encountering  it.  If  every- 
thing else  fails,  there's  the  sky  1" 

She  brought  this  skill  in  chromatics  to  her  aid  in 
choosing  her  gowns,  and  never  wore  an  unlovely 
hue  in  silk  or  velvet,  wool  or  cotton.  A  patch  on  a 
poor  woman's  calico  dress  was  a  far  less  offensive 
sight  to  her  than  the  line  of  brilliant  yellow  silk 
which  so  many  misguided  blondes  wear  in  the  neck 
of  their  seal-skin  jackets,  thereby  quite  overpower- 
ing whatever  little  gold  their  hair  might  otherwise 
boast.  That  any  woman  should  be  so  ignorant,  so 
lost  to  her  own  interests,  as  not  even  to  lay  her  un- 
gloved hand  upon  a  piece  of  goods  whose  purchase 
she  was  contemplating,  was  a  fact  utterly  beyond 
Bella's  comprehension. 

On  this  sunny  May  afternoon  she  wore  a  brown 
woollen  dress  and  a  brown  straw  hat ;  the  latter  was 


-■K 


ADRIFT. 


2; 


surmounted  by  a  plumassary  of  golden  and  reddish 
brown  tints,  some  of  which  exactly  matched  her 
hair,  while  others  accentuated  its  lights  and  shadows. 
She  carried  a  bro^/n  shopping-bag  and  umbrella,  and 
held  in  her  hand  the  inevitable  French  novel,  which, 
however,  could  not  win  her  gaze  from  the  heaven- 
blue  river. 

The  railway,  after  coquettishly  approaching  and 
retreating  from  the  stream  several  times,  finally  re- 
turned to  it  for  good  and  ran  along  its  bank.  The 
river  at  this  point  is  apparently  as  si.iooth  as  a  lake, 
and  its  treacherous  surface  offers  no  indication  of 
danger.  Bella  watched  it  thoughtfully  until  the  vil- 
lage intervened  and  the  brakeman  shouted, — 

"  Niagara  Falls !" 


CHAPTER    III. 


"  I  low  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought. 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 
Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death; 
Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath  !" 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


The  most  noticeable  thing  about  the  slender 
young  lady  who  met  Mrs.  Forrester  as  she  de- 
scended from  the  train  was  that  she  was  attired  in 
the  height  of  style  and  the  perfection  of  good  taste. 


28 


ADRIFT. 


This  is  no  small  distinction  in  an  age  and  country 
where  every  one  dresses  well.  She  was  apparently 
not  moved  to  any  agitation  or  eagerness  by  the  ar- 
rival of  her  cousin's  wife,  and  merely  said,  in  cool, 
even  tones, — 

"How  do  you  do,  Bella?" 

"  How  do  you  do,  Diana  ?  I  suppose  we  ought 
to  kiss,  but  as  the  children  say,  '  Let's  don't !' " 

"Very  well,"  said  Miss  Forrester.  "Give  me 
your  checks,  if  you  haven't  lost  them,  and  I  will  see 
about  having  your  trunks  sent  home." 

She  attended  to  this,  and  to  several  other  little 
matters  about  the  depot,  in  the  calm,  unhurried 
manner  habitual  to  her,  while  Bella  stood  in  the 
door-way  watching  the  passers-by.  Many  of  these 
were  evidently  tourists,  who  gave  to  the  pretty  little 
town  a  factitious  appearance  of  wedth  and  elegant 
leisure.  Bella  formulated  on  the  instant  a  theory 
that  she  could  distinguish  the  visitors  from  the  resi- 
dents by  the  superior  elevation  of  expression  to  be 
found  in  the  faces  of  the  latter. 

"  To  live  all  their  lives  within  sight  and  sound  of 
that  magnificent  work  of  God !  Surely  it  must  not 
only  ennoble  the  mind,  it  must  chisel  into  the  very 
flesh  a  grandeur  akin  to  its  own !" 

But  after  carefully  scanning  a  score  of  counte- 
nances, she  was  forced  to  abandon  her  fancy,  con- 
cluding that  the  children  were  no  more  cherubic, 
the  maidens  no  more  seraphic,  the  middle-aged  men 
and  women  no  less  careworn  and  given  to  the  things 
of  this  world,  than  those  of  other  communities. 
Miss  Forrester,  having  transacted  her  business,  now 


ADRIFT. 


29 


came  out,  followed  her  guest  into  the  low  basket 
phaeton,  took  up  the  lines,  and  drove  away, 

"  We  shouldn't  have  had  nearly  so  far  to  drive," 
she  remarked,  in  a  tone  distantly  suggestive  of  re- 
proach, "  and  it  would  have  been  a  great  saving  of 
time " 

"  You  are  always  so  anxious  to  save  time,  Diana!" 
the  other  interrupted.  "  My  only  object  on  earth  is 
to  get  rid  of  it." 

"  If  you  had  gone  on  in  the  train  to  the  next 
station,  Suspension  Bridge,"  continued  Miss  For- 
rester.    "  But  I  knew  you  wouldn't,  so  I  came  here." 

"  No,  of  course  I  wouldn't,"  said  Bella,  decidedly. 
"  And  it's  always  a  wonder  to  me  that  other  people 
can  rush  right  by  Niagara  Falls.  I  think,  whatever 
their  errands,  they  ought  to  pause  here  a  little  space, 
and  make  at  least  in  their  hearts  a  mute  reverence 
to  the  glory  and  the  beauty  of  this  spot,  as  a  Cath- 
olic bows  to  the  altar  before  he  leaves  the  church !" 

Miss  Forrester  turned  and  regarded  her  cousin's 
wife  as  if  she  were  an  unsolvable  riddle.  "  You  are 
as  full  of  your  queer  ideas  as  ever,  Bella,"  she  said, 
tolerantly. 

"  Do  you  call  that  an  idea,  Diana  ?  It's  very  kind 
of  you,  I'm  sure." 

Diana  was  silent  a  moment.  She  was  one  of 
those  unfortunate  persons  whose  words,  though 
never  deliberately  offensive,  yet  never  by  any 
chance  produce  other  than  a  disagreeable  effect. 
She  was  dimly  conscious  of  this  fatality  of  speech, 
and  was  always  making  feeble  and  futile  efforts  to 
overcome  it.     She  made  one  now. 


30 


ADRIFT. 


"And  you  are  looking  as  blooming  and  jolly  as 
ever,  Bella !" 

Now,  no  woman  ever  lived  who  liked  to  be  called 
jolly,  and  even  the  complimentary  epithet  blooming 
was  distasteful  to  Bella,  implying  as  it  did  an  enjoy- 
ment of  life  which  it  was  her  constant  endeavor  to 
disclaim. 

'  Diana,  you're  too  hateful !"  she  exclaimed, 
softening  her  words  by  a  smile.  "  You  knoiv  I  pre- 
fer to  be  called  pining.  I'm  simply  wretched,  and  I 
like  to  look  so.  Do  you  suppose  that  if  I  had  pos- 
sessed the  smallest  measure  of  contentment  in 
Buffalo  I  would  have  come  down  here  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Diana,  inhospitably,  "  it's  perfectly 
inexplicable  to  me  why  you  ha7>e  come." 

"  It's  equally  so  to  me,  I  assure  you,"  returned 
Bella.  "  But  I'll  try  to  explain  my  mental  condition 
to  you,  Diana,  so  far  as  I  comprehend  it  myself.  I 
am  in  a  very  morbid  state ;  really,  I  think  I  should 
have  had  a  brain  fever  this  spring,  only,  as  Jack  said, 
I  hadn't  enough  brains  to  have  it  with.  Nothing 
seems  a  desirable  thing  to  do,  to  see,  to  know.  The 
sources  of  action  are  dead  in  me." 

Miss  Forrester  heard  these  symptoms  with  pro- 
found interest.  "  It  sounds  as  if  you  were  going 
crazy,"  she  observed. 

"  Yes  ;  that's  what  I  feared.  At  last  I  thought  of 
you,  Diana,  I  thought  your  society  would  prove  a 
tonic  to  me.  You  know  you  will  not  pet  and  in- 
dulge me  as  Jack  does.  And  it  will  be  good 
for  me,  too,  to  spend  the  summer  listening  to  the 
leonine   roar  of  the   great   cataract;   it  will   make 


^ 


ADRIFT. 


31 


\y  as 

:alled 
►ming 
injoy- 
ror  to 

limed, 
I  pre- 
and  I 
d  pos- 
jnt    in 

rfectly 

turned 
ndition 
self.  I 
should 
:k  said, 
lothing 
r.     The 


me  realize  my  own  littleness  and  think  less  about 
myself." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Miss  Forrester.  After  a  pause 
she  added,  dubiously, "  But  you  know,  Bella,  we  can- 
not actually  hear  the  noise  of  the  Falls  in  my  house." 

"The  principle  is  just  the  same,"  declared  Bella. 
*'  Did  it  never  occur  to  you,  Diana,  that  even  as  that 
Liemcndous  sweep  of  limpid  water  must  purify  the 
circumambient  air,  so  too  it  must  exalt  and  vivify 
its  moral  and  intellectual  surroundings?" 

"No,"  said' Diana,  emphatically,  "it  most  cer- 
tainly never  occurred  to  me."  And  she  secretly 
rejoiced  that  she  was  undisturbed  by  any  such  chi- 
merical reflections. 

A  space  of  silence  ensued ;  for,  contrary  to  all  es- 
tablished traditions,  these  two  women  were  capable 
of  protracted  periods  of  utter  speechlessness.  Each 
sincerely  liked  the  other,  yet  found  it  quite  impossi- 
ble to  thoroughly  understand  and  respect  her,  and 
whenever  their  clashing  opinions  imperilled  harmony 
they  were  accustomed  to  resort  to  a  policy  of  abso- 
lute quiet,  which  was  only  broken  after  the  lapse  of 
some  minutes  by  the  introduction  of  a  more  peace- 
ful subject. 

Miss  Forrester  was  a  type  of  the  large  and  con- 
stantly increasing  class  of  young  American  women 
who  do  not  marry,  not  because  they  have  no  oppor- 
tunities, but  simply  because  they  do  not  wish  to  do 
so.  Time  was  when  the  unmarried  woman  of  ma- 
ture years  was  represented  in  novels  and  dramas  as 
being  imbued  with  a  frant'c  desire  to  take  unto  her- 
self a  mate  ;  but  if  any  similar  portraitures  are  given 


32 


ADRIFT. 


to  the  world  nowadays,  be  assured  they  are  false  and 
wholly  forcif^n  to  the  spirit  of  the  a^e.  A  school- 
teacher once  wittily  remarked  that  she  would  not 
exchange  a  sixty-dollar  position  for  a  ten-dollar 
man,  and  in  a  lower  grade  of  society,  a  pretty  little 
housemaid  being  chidden  by  her  mistress  for  not  re- 
warding an  ardent  and  faithful  swain  by  the  bestowal 
of  her  hand,  said,  naively,  "  Ah,  yes,  ma'am,  I  know 
I  could  have  as  good  a  husband  as  ever  lived  if  I 
was  willing  to  take  in  washing!"  Women  of  all 
conditions  are  in  these  practical  days  competent  to 
thus  dispassionately  consider  the  relative  advantages 
of  single  and  wedded  life  to  a  degree  which  was  un- 
dreamed of  fifty  years  ago,  and  with  results  so  un- 
favorable to  marriage  that  the  entire  extinction  of 
the  race  is  quite  predicable  from  this  cause. 

While  the  existence  of  a  husband  would  not  have 
been  so  inimical  to  Miss  Forrester's  pecuniary  in- 
terests as  to  those  of  many  women,  she  yet  saw  no 
reason  why  she  should  admit  a  clumsy  and  probably 
untidy  man  into  the  privacy  of  her  pretty  home. 
She  had  no  slightest  conception  of  the  subtle,  irre- 
sistible attraction  towards  one  of  the  other  sex  which 
makes  marriage — with  whatever  vista  ot  future  pov- 
erty, neglect,  and  disappointment — the  most  natural 
and  inevitable  thing  in  life.  Whether  she  would 
ever  meet  the  one  man  who  could  make  this  seem 
possible  to  her  was  an  open  question. 

She  was  the  fortunate  possessor  of  an  exquisitely 
slim  girlish  figure  of  medium  height,  equally  far  re- 
moved from  angularity  or  redundancy.  Her  com- 
plexion was  of  a  clear,  transparent   pallor  seldom 


ADRnr. 


33 


illumined  by  a  flush  of  color ;  her  eyes  were  large, 
brown,  and  of  a  deceptive  softness  and  timidity,  and 
her  hands  and  feet  were  delicately  small.  Her  man- 
ner was  refreshingly  simple  and  direct,  and  she  had 
kept  till  now,  in  her  thirty-first  year,  a  marvellous 
candor  and  childlikeness  of  expression,  chiefly  be- 
cause she  had  been  subjected  to  only  one  aging  in- 
fluence,— that  of  Time,  who  is  always  slow  to  put  a 
destroying  finger  on  the  facial  beauties  which  illness, 
anxiety,  thought,  and  sin  have  never  molested.  Miss 
Forrester's  serene  existence  had  been  devoid  of 
trouble,  and  she  was  by  nature  incapable  of  entering 
into  the  woes  of  others, — she  had  read  "  The  New- 
comes,"  and  had  not  cried  over  the  Colonel's  death, 
which  is  a  convincing  proof  of  her  insensibility.  Her 
detractors  said  that  the  placid  youthfulness  of  her 
countenance  was  but  the  external  reflection  of  an 
inactive  mind  and  an  unimpressible  spirit ;  still,  the 
fact  remained  that  she  looked  young. 

Although  Miss  Forrester  possessed  all  the  attrac- 
tions above  enumerated,  she  was  surprisingly  free 
from  their  correlative  blemish,  vanity.  She  never 
opened  her  wide  brown  eyes  to  their  fullest  extent, 
nor  slightly  projected  a  dainty  kid  boot  from  beneath 
her  dress,  nor  practised  a  spell  akin  to  Vivien's 
"  charm  of  waving  hands  "  because  of  the  whiteness 
and  fragility  of  those  members.  These  and  similar 
tricks  of  manner  which  render  the  charms  of  some 
women  a  burden  to  their  friends  were  unknown  to 
Miss  Forrester.  She  was  not,  however,  devoid  of 
the  equally  absorbing  if  less  immediately  personal 
vanity  of  dress.     She  was  intensely  devoted  to  her 


34 


ADRIFT. 


clothes,  and  expended  upon  them  hours  of  mental 
application  and  large  amounts  of  money,  asking 
nothing  in  return  save  that  they  should  be  stylish 
and  pretty.  Diana  did  not  even  demand  of  her  nu- 
merous integuments  that  they  should  heighten  her 
own  attractiveness ;  their  intrinsic  beauty  sufficed  for 
her.  There  are  many  women  of  this  stamp,  who 
are  less  concerned  over  a  line  in  the  cheek  than  a 
wrinkle  in  the  corsage.  Perhaps,  though,  this  is 
because  the  one  is  unavoidable,  while  the  other  is 
not. 

It  was  as  well  for  strangers  not  to  inquire  too 
closely  into  Miss  Forrester's  pedigree,  for  the  sub- 
ject was  fraught  with  some  embarrassment  to  even 
that  calm  and  self-poised  young  lady.  The  identity 
of  her  progenitors  was  involved  in  the  densest  ob- 
scurity, and  this  circumstance  had  caused  the  only 
anxiety  and  pain  her  unruffled  life  had  known. 
Even  this  was  not  a  source  of  serious  trouble  to 
her,  for  while  an  imaginative  girl  might  have  tor- 
tured herself  with  the  fear  that  her  infant  slumbers 
were  induced  by  some  such  malison  as  Charles 
Lamb  has  perpetuated,  or  have  revelled  in  the  proud 
belief  that  her  remote  ancestors  were  Crusaders  and 
the  more  immediate  ones  dukes  and  earls,  Diana 
took  a  middle  course,  and  held  that  her  origin 
might  probably  be  traced,  were  it  worth  while  to 
attempt  the  task,  to  persons  poor  but  eminently  re- 
spectable, who,  dying  of  an  epidemic  within  a  few 
hours  of  each  other,  had  bequeathed  their  baby  girl 
to  their  benefactor,  Mr.  Marcy  Forrester.  The  one 
thing  that  made  this  simple  hypothesis   untenable 


ADRIFT. 


3S 


was  the  extreme  difficulty  of  imagining  Mr.  Marcy 
Torrcstcr  in  the  hght  of  a  benefactor. 

This  gentleman,  who  was  Diana's  guardian,  how- 
ever he  became  so,  had  placed  her  in  a  New  England 
boarding-school  at  the  tender  age  of  three  months, 
and  had  paid  without  a  murmur  the  large  charges 
which  the  keeping  of  the  infant  necessitated.  Here 
Diana  remained — being  one  of  those  docile  creatures 
who  "  stay  put " — not  only  until  she  graduated  at 
twenty,  but  for  two  years  longer,  pursuing  special 
studies  in  botany  and  in  designing.  At  last,  how- 
ever, her  patience  was  exhausted,  and  she  wrote  a 
somewhat  peremptory  letter  to  her  guardian,  who 
had  occasionally  visited  the  school  during  the  prog- 
ress of  his  ward's  education,  demanding  some  varia- 
tion of  her  monotonous  life.  To  this  very  reasonable 
requisition  Mr.  Forrester  promptly  responded  by 
arranging  for  her  to  accompany  a  wealthy  and  cul- 
tured family  of  his  acquaintance  on  a  three  years 
tour  through  Europe.  At  its  conclusion  he  sought 
an  interview  with  Diana,  in  which  he  informed  her 
that  failing  health  compelled  him  to  abandon  the 
gay,  nomadic,  bachelor's  existence  he  had  led  so 
long,  and  that  he  proposed  to  establish  a  peaceful 
home  for  his  declining  years.  Would  she  grace 
that  home  with  her  gentle  presence,  as  his  own 
daughter  might  have  done  ?  She  would,  and  did, 
and  the  house  which  Mr.  Forrester  purchased  upon 
the  American  bank  of  Niagara  River,  a  mile  or  so 
below  the  Whirlpool,  owed  to  Diana  during  the 
short  period  in  which  she  was  its  mistress  an  ele- 
gance and  precision  in  its  appointments  to  which  it 


'm. 


36 


ADRIFT. 


never  thereafter  attained.  Diana  was  soon  shocked 
by  the  laxity  of  her  guardian's  views,  and  weary  of 
the  struggle  with  his  lifelong  habits  of  idleness  and 
untidiness  ;  Mr.  Forrester  was  simultaneously  weary 
of  the  severe  and  impeccable  young  woman  whose 
like  he  had  religiously  avoided  all  his  days,  and 
shocked  at  his  fatuity  in  burdening  himself  with 
such  a  companion.  Therefore  it  will  readily  be  seen 
that  it  was  a  very  easy  thing  to  effect  a  separation  at 
the  end  of  a  year.  Diana  accepted  from  her  attached 
guardian  a  small  tract  of  land,  adjoining  his  own 
grounds,  and  proceeded  to  i)uild  a  house  upon  it. 
Mr.  Forrester  breathed  freely  once  more;  cigars, 
pipes,  bottles,  began  to  app:;ar  everywhere,  and  ob- 
jectionable French  novels  were  scattered  about  in 
the  unrebuked  confusion  dear  to  their  owner's  ill- 
regulated  mind. 

Diana  tasted  the  full  enjoyment — never,  alas  !  un- 
mixed with  perplexity  and  disappointment — to  be 
found  in  planning,  building,  and  furnishing  a  house. 
She  designed  her  fireplace,  and  her  door  and  win- 
dow of  stained  glass,  and  embroidered  her  portieres 
v.'ith  her  own  hands,  and  when  all  the  work  was  ac- 
complished she  felt  justly  proud  of  it.  She  had 
lived  there  five  years  now,  long  enough  for  the  cul- 
tivation of  a  profusion  of  vines  and  shrubs  upon  the 
lawn,  and  of  a  small  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  house. 
Beyond  this  garden  was  a  narrow  space  of  earth 
covered  with  evergreens  and  willow  trees,  which 
ended  abruptly  at  the  very  verge  of  a  sheer  precipice 
of  three  hundred  feet,  along  whose  base  the  river 
ran   sullenly,  only  just    recovering    quiet   after    its 


ADRIFT. 


37 


awful  tumultuous  passage  through  the  Whirlpool. 
One  might  look  from  the  road  upon  the  pretty  little 
house  wreathed  by  the  budding  vines  and  darkly 
framed  by  the  pines  beyond,  without  ever  suspecting 
that  a  careless  walk  at  nightfall  under  those  trees 
might  result  in  complete  bodily  annihilation. 

"  How  lovely  the  place  is  looking !"  said  Bella,  as 
the  horse  came  to  a  half  before  it.  "  Do  you  realize, 
Diana,  that  we've  not  spoken  a  word  for  two  miles  ? 
I'm  glad  that  we  both  can  exercise  the  golden  gift 
of  silence.  When  one  is  thinking  deeply  a  chance 
interruption  may  leave  the  mind  untuned  for  hours, 
may  break  a  precious  train  of  reflection  that  no 
earthly  power  can  ever  cause  to  be  resumed.  Isn't 
it  so?" 

**  I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  my  reflections  have 
ever  seemed  particularly  precious  to  me,"  said 
Diana,  dubiously,  as  she  secured  the  horse  to  await 
the  coming  of  Mr.  Forrester's  servant,  who  twice  a 
day  brought  his  master's  phaeton  over  for  Miss  For- 
rester's use,  and  twice  a  day  came  to  take  it  away. 
Then  she  led  the  way  up  to  the  house,  and,  turning 
on  the  threshold,  said,  with  simple  cordiality,  "  Wel- 
come, Bella !  I  hope  you  will  spend  a  pleasant  sum- 
mer here." 

"  I  know  I  shall,"  said  Bella,  following  her  hostess 
in-doors.  The  hall  was  unique,  picturesque,  and  of 
extravagantly  large  dimensions.  A  stranger  would 
certainly  have  inferred  from  its  size  that  he  was  en- 
tering quite  a  palatial  residence  instead  of  a  little 
frame  house.  The  mural  decorations  and  the  dra- 
peries were  chiefly  blue  and  olive;  the  walls  were 

4 


"1 


% 


38 


ADRIFT. 


further  enriched  by  several  good  pictures.  The  hall 
was  comfortably  furnished,  and  lacked  not  easy- 
chairs  and  a  lounge.  The  stairs  ascended  in  one 
corner ;  half-way  up  they  made  an  abrupt  turn,  and 
the  little  square  landing  thus  formed  was  illuminated 
by  a  tiny  circular  window  of  brilliant  stained  glass, 
to  which  Diana  referred  as  a  rose,  a  mangold,  or  a 
Catherine-wheel  window,  according  to  the  degree  of 
conversance  with  ecclesiastical  architecture  she  sup- 
posed her  interlocutor  to  possess.  The  effect  of  this 
little  window,  with  the  sun  shining  fi'll  upon  it,  was 
as  of  a  bright  and  cheery  greeting. 

The  parlor,  on  the  right  of  the  hall,  was  entered 
through  a  wide  door-way  hung  with  portieres  which 
presented  a  dull  blue  surface  to  the  hall  and  a  warm 
crimson  to  the  parlor,  for  this  latter  room  was  fur- 
nished in  crimson  and  olive;  whatever  was  not  of 
one  or  the  other  of  these  two  colors  was  of  a  hue 
distantly  related  to  them.  There  was  a  piano,  a 
spirited  bronze  horse  and  rider  on  the  mantel-shelf, 
and  there  was  in  the  fireplace  of  Diana's  designing 
a  fire  whose  merry  sparkle  seemed  to  repeat  the 
kindly  welcome  of  the  little  rose  window.  Books 
there  were  in  plenty,  for  Diana  read  a  good  deal, 
albeit  in  that  perfunctory  way  which  makes  reading 
a  duty  not  a  delight ;  and  the  room  also  contained 
a  sufficiency  of  pictures  and  pretty  chairs  and  plush 
wall-banners.  Beyond  was  the  dining-room,  re- 
deemed from  commonplaceness  by  a  rather  singular 
sideboard  designed  by  Miss  Forrester  in  order  to 
display  to  the  greatest  advantage  about  thirty  china 
plates  painted   by  herself     There   was,  besides,  an 


ADRIFT. 


39 


absurd  corner-cupboard,  also  of  original  design,  in 
which  the  mistress  of  the  house  kept,  carefully 
guarded,  several  decanters  of  the  very  choicest 
home-made  blackberry  wine. 

Bella  walked  into  the  parlor,  hesitated  a  moment 
between  two  arm-chairs, — one  olive  relieved  by 
crimson,  the  other  vice  versa, — chose  the  former  as 
being  more  in  harmony  with  her  complexion,  and 
sank  into  it. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  certainly  be  contented  here,"  she 
murmured.  "  Here  adverse  influences  can  find  no 
admission ;  the/  cannot  tear  and  rend  and  make  of 
no  avail  our  hopes,  our  purposes,  our  carefully 
gleaned  grains  of  knowledge." 

"  Yes,  it's  very  quiet  here,"  responded  Diana,  ab- 
stractedly. Then,  with  animation,  "  That  hat  suits 
you  well  enough,  Bella,  but  it  hasn't  a  bit  of  style !" 


CHAPTER    IV. 


"  Here  health  returns  in  sickness  ; 
And  mirth  returns  in  heaviness ; 
Town  in  desert,  forest  in  plain, — 
All  earthly  joy  returns  in  pain." 

William  Dunbar. 

Sixty  years  before  the  date  of  this  chronicle,  when 
Buffalo  was  but  a  straggling  hamlet  not  yet  fully  re- 
covered from  the  severe  scorching  it  had  received  at 
the  hands  of  the  British  a  decade  previous,  a  young 
man  named  Forrester  who  owned  a  small  farm  on 


I! 


40 


ADRIFT, 


the  outskirts  of  the  village  had  said  of  his  two  little 
sons, — 

"  Marcy  is  bound  to  succeed  in  life ;  John  is 
equally  bound  to  fail," 

This  prophecy,  based  on  the  yielding  gentleness 
of  the  one  and  the  indomitable  greed  and  selfishness 
of  the  other,  had,  from  a  worldly  point  of  view,  been 
fulfilled.  John  lived  a  quiet,  humble  life,  and  the 
traditional  wolf  always  prowled  uncomfortably  near 
his  door.  He  married  for  love  a  tender,  timid  little 
thing  as  poor  as  himself  and  correspondingly  ill 
adapted  for  battling  with  the  world.  Both  wearied 
early  of  the  struggle  for  existence  and  gave  it  up  in 
despair  in  the  very  prime  of  their  age,  bequeathing 
to  tlieir  only  son  and  bv  'r  a  few  books,  some  worth- 
less old  furniture,  and  a  quantity  of  debts  sufficient 
to  swamp  the  boat  of  almost  any  young  voyager 
along  the  river  of  time.  It  certainly  seemed  at  first 
as  if  John  Forrester,  Junior,  were  to  follow  in  his 
fither's  unlucky  footsteps,  especially  as  he  also  com- 
plicated his  difficulties  by  marrying  a  dreamy,  vis- 
ionary young  girl  whose  chief  characteristic  was  a 
colossal  and  amazing  incapacity  for  doing  anything 
useful.  He  attempted  the  practice  of  law,  but  soon 
recognizing  his  unfitness  for  it,  he  wisely  resolved 
to  abandon  it,  and  boldly  entered  the  golden  fields 
of  speculation,  with  such  fortunate  results  that  very 
soon  Bella's  ignorance  of  domestic  duties  was  sup- 
plemented by  the  skill  of  trained  servants,  and  her 
husband's  digestion  was  no  longer  imperilled  by 
toxical  compounds  of  her  preparation. 

Marcy  Forrester,  on   the  other   hand,  had  com- 


tmmfm 


mmm 


miW!iiii.u,iJiiiiiiiJii"UBi.'» 


^ 


ADRIFT. 


41 


passed  ever/  object  of  his  ambition,  such  as  these 
objects  were.  He  had  not  cared  to  win  power,  dis- 
tinction, immense  wealth,  or  any  dF  the  earthly- 
prizes  for  which  men  commonly  strive  much  harder 
than  for  the  heavenly  ones.  He  had  simply  wanted 
tc  enjoy  himself,  and  for  the  space  of  half  a  century 
he  did  so  to  the  utmost.  As  he  expressed  it,  he 
condensed  at  least  one  hundred  years  of  man's  ordi- 
nary living  into  half  that  number.  At  an  early 
stage  in  his  career  he  mastered  several  means  of 
procuring  the  first  and  most  indispensable  require- 
ment of  a  voluptuary's  life, — money, — which  means, 
if  often  questionable,  were  at  all  events  successful. 
Having  soon  exhausted  the  somewhat  limited  oppor- 
tunities for  pleasures  lawful  and  otherwise  afforded 
by  his  native  town,  he  left  it  for  the  older  and 
wickeder  civilization  of  Europe,  and  while  John  For- 
rester was  treading  the  thorny  path  of  ill-paid  indus- 
try in  Buffalo,  his  brother  Marcy  skipped  lightly 
along  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance  in  various 
foreign  cities,  excelling  the  natives  of  each  one  in 
the  particular  form  of  dissipation  which  was  its  own 
peculiar  boast.  This  brilliant  series  of  triumphs 
came  to  an  abrupt  end  one  night  at  Monaco,  after  a 
long  and  exciting  evening  during  which  he  had  as- 
tonished the  by-standers  by  play  equally  rash  and 
lucky.  He  attempted  to  take  up  the  heap  of  gold 
and  notes  he  had  won,  but  his  hand  refused  to  obey 
him  ;  he  would  have  sprung  to  his  feet  in  bewildered 
rage,  but  he  could  not ;  he  tried  to  utter  an  impotent 
curse, — instead,  the  muscles  of  his  face  contracted 

in  a  grotesque  laugh.     They  carried  him  away,  some 

4* 


K 


if  5  .)! 


42 


ADRIFT. 


one  took  his  place,  and  the  trivial  incident  was  soon 
forgotten.  But  it  is  highly  improbable  that  all  the 
pleasure  of  Marcy  Forrester's  life  counterbalanced 
the  anguish  of  mind  iie  endured  that  night  and 
for  many  nights  and  days  thereafter.  When  the 
thought  of  death  had  been  unavoidably  thrust  upon 
him  he  had  always  put  it  aside  with  an  optimistic 
faith  that  it  would  come  to  him  suddenly,  mercifully, 
in  thf  fulness  of  time,  when  he  should  be  just  a  little 
weary  of  his  long  care-free  life,  and  almost  ready  to 
relinquish  it.  He  never  dreamed  of  this, — that  he 
should  be  stricken  down  in  middle  life  by  a  malady 
which  left  him,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  an  un- 
buried  corpse,  in  the  world  but  no  longer  of  it. 
Vainly  the  physicians  endeavored  to  reassure  him ; 
he  foresaw  that  henceforth  he  must  "  sit  like  his 
grandsire  carved  in  alabaster,"  and  never  again  be 
as  he  had  been. 

This  melancholy  foreboding  was  confirmed  upon 
his  celebrating  his  complete  recovery  by  imbibing 
about  one-fifteenth  of  his  former  allowance  of  cham- 
pagne, for  even  this  mild  indulgence  so  stimulated 
the  over-wrought  heart  and  irritated  the  diseased 
nerves  that  a  second  attack  of  paralysis  supervened. 
As  usual,  the  relapse  was  more  dangerous  than  the 
first  illness,  and  it  was  the  mere  wreck  and  shadow 
of  himself  that  six  months  later  tottered  aboard  an 
American-bound  steamer. 

He  had  ne^'er  burdened  himself  with  a  wife,  aver- 
ring that  he  admired  women  too  much  collectively 
to  devote  himself  to  one,  but  now  he  longed  for  the 
feminine   sympa^'^iy  and   petting   that   lightens   the 


m 


ADRIFT. 


43 


dreariest  invalidism.  It  was  at  this  juncture  he 
bought  the  house  on  the  river-bank  and  persuaded 
Diana  to  adorn  it  with  her  presence.  He  probably- 
owed  so  much  of  health  as  he  regained  to  her  strict 
surveillance  of  his  food,  drink,  exercise,  and  hours 
of  retirement,  for  which  he  was  just  as  grateful  as 
might  be  expected ;  he  took  a  violent  dislike  to  her, 
and  when  she  departed  to  her  own  house  his  only 
emotion  was  one  of  unqualified  relief. 

His  solitude  was  sometimes  enlivened  by  the  visits 
of  his  former  companions,  whom  he  invariably  either 
envied  or  despised,  according  as  their  physical  con- 
dition was  better  or  worse  than  his  own.  He  sud- 
denly developed  a  fondness  for  literature,  read  a 
great  deal  in  several  languages,  and  was  writing  his 
Memoirs,  in  whose  pages  he  lived  over  again  his 
selfish,  aimless,  vapid  life,  which  was,  after  all,  illu- 
minated by  one  good  deed. 

Spending  a  day  or  so  in  Buffalo  while  negotiating 
for  the  purchase  of  his  house  he  had  naturally  looked 
up  his  nephew,  whom  he  had  never  seen.  He  was 
pleased  with  the  young  fellow,  and  so  charmed  with 
Bella  that  instead  of  obeying  his  first  impulse  to 
sneer  at  John's  modest  efforts  in  speculation,  he  ac- 
tually assisted  him  with  advice  and  even  with  the 
sinews  of  war  itself.  This  was  the  beginning  of  the 
young  man's  good  fortune,  and  was  the  cause  of 
much  self-laudation  on  bis  uncle's  part. 

Bella  and  Marcy  Forrester  from  that  time  kept  up 
a  vigorous  correspondence  on  a  wide  range  of  topics. 
When  he  was  settled  in  his  new  home  he  invited  her 
to  visit  him  and  make  Diana's  acquaintance.     The 


(1.  J 


•ii 


<.  i 


Vj' 


r: 


44 


ADRIFT. 


two  young  women  immediately  became  friends  after 
a  fashion,  and  ever  after,  when  Bella's  own  home 
was  for  any  reason  distasteful  to  her,  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  take  refuge  in  Diana's. 

"  I  must  run  over  this  evening  and  see  Uncle 
Marcy,  Diana,"  she  said,  as  they  sat  together  in  the 
early  dusk  on  the  first  day  of  her  visit.  "  He  will 
think  it  very  strange  and  unkind  if  I  do  not." 

"  You  are  not  always  so  careful  of  people's  feel- 
ings," commented  Diana. 

"  No,"  said  Bella,  "  I  admit  it.  But  he  is  different. 
It's  pathetic  to  see  that  old  man  sinking  into  his 
grave  hated  by  all  who  know  him,  and  I  wouldn't 
for  worlds  disabuse  him  of  the  notion  that  I  at  least 
love  him." 

"  You  should  not  permit  him  to  take  comfort  in  a 
falsity,  an  absurdity,"  said  Diana.  "  You  do  not 
love  him." 

"  Certainly  I  do  not ;  but  I  pity  him  and  I  under- 
stand him,  which  is  more  than  you  are  able  to  do, 
Diana." 

"Thank  heaven,  yes  I"  said  Diana.  "And  I  may 
add  that  I  have  the  poorest  opinion  of  any  one  who 
prides  herself  upo'^  understanding  Marcy  Forrester." 

According  to  the  usual  custom  of  these  prudent 
young  women  when  their  conversation  threatened  to 
become  tinged  with  bitterness,  they  permitted  a  sud- 
den silence  to  supervene,  and  it  was  not  until  Bella 
had  put   on   her  hat   and  wrap   that  Diana  spoke 


agam. 


"  Shall  I  send  some  me  with  you,  Bella?" 

"  No,  thanks ;  I  prefer   to  walk   over   alone,  and 


ipPPP»P«WPlWffi»^WUI.l.ilill.l  I 


<lll 


ADRIFT.  ^5 

Uncle  Marcy  will  sec  that  I  get  home  all  right.  Is 
there  any  message  I  can  take  to  him, — your  love, 
for  instance  ?" 

Diana  gave  her  a  glance  of  emphatic  negation. 
"  But  you  may  tell  him  I  heard  he  was  smoking 
three  cigars  a  day,  and  I  advise  him  to  stop  it." 

"  Very  well,  I'll  tell  him,"  said  Bella. 

There  were  two  ways  of  going  to  Mr.  Forrester's, 
— by  the  road  upon  which  both  houses  faced,  or  by  a 
path  in  their  rear.  Bella  chose  the  latter  route,  and 
passing  through^the  little  garden,  just  waking  up  after 
its  winter  sleep,  she  turned  into  the  path  and  strolled 
slowly  onward.  On  one  hand  were  the  odorous 
peach  orchards,  on  the  other  was  the  belt  of  lofty 
pines.  Once  or  twice  Bella  took  a  few  cautious 
steps  "beneath  the  trees  and  looked  into  the  gorge 
below,  but  the  daylight  was  so  nearly  gone  that  her 
gaze  encountered  only  a  dark  mysterious  depth.  No 
sound  was  audible  save  the  faint  sighing  of  the 
breeze  among  the  pines;  it  was  soothing  rather  thaii 
melancholy,  and  Bella  thought  it  a  far  sweeter  lullaby 
than  the  sound  of  the  sea. 

When  she  reached  the  wide  lawn  behind  Mr.  For- 
rester's residence,  she  saw  that  two  people,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  awaited  her  on  the  back  veranda. 
They  were  Mr.  Forrester's  servants,  and  therefore 
objects  of  compassion  to  every  feeling  heart.  Quick- 
ening her  pace  a  little,  Bella  ran  up  the  eteps  and 
greeted  them  warmly. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Gretchen  ?  how  do  you  do,  Fritz  ?" 
She  came  to  a  dubitative  pause.  When  she  had  last 
seen  her  uncle's  servitors  they  were  clad  in  the  strik- 


m 

Km 


r{ 
I 

t 


w  W 


i  isri 


ii 


i 


\ 


46 


ADRIFT, 


ingly  picturesque  costume  of  Biivariiin  peasants,  and 
had  been  trained  to  answer  to  the  congruous  names 
she  had  uttered.  Hut  now  the  man  wore  the  dark- 
blue  blouse  and  trousers  of  a  French  oiivncr,  and  the 
woman's  attire  was  that  of  a  Parisian  bonne, — full 
black  skirts,  white  cap  and  apron,  and  modest  white 
kerchief,  upon  which  a  large  gold  cross  glittered. 

"How  air  yez,  Mrs.  Forrester?"  said  the  woman, 
cordially.  **  We're  French  now,  an*  by  the  same 
token  ye'll  plaze  to  call  us  Fleep  an'  Slest." 

Bella  laughed.  What  outward  adornments  of 
Gallic  or  Teutonic  fashion  could  for  one  instant  dis- 
guise the  nationality  of  the  speaker  ? 

"  I  think  you  are  very  lucky  in  the  change,"  said 
she.  "  These  clothes  are  nicer  than  the  last  ones, — 
quieter  in  style,  you  know." 

"  Much  more  daycint  altogether,"  acquiesced  the 
man.  "  Arrah,  Mrs.  Forrester,  we're  glad  to  have 
yez  come  down  to  brighten  up  the  ould  gentleman 
a  bit.  It's  harrud  on  yez,  but  it's  a  mighty  relafe 
to  us  !" 

The  two  smiled  at  her  in  sincere  pleasure.  Bella 
was  touched  by  a  subtle  suggestion  in  their  plain 
middle-aged  faces  that  smiles  were  infrequent  visitors 
there.  She  talked  with  them  a  few  moments,  then 
went  alone  into  the  house,  which,  without  being  a 
mansion,  was  yet  of  good  size.  The  main  hall  was 
a  large  square  room,  in  which  all  manner  of  Asiatic 
and  European  curios  consorted  together  oddly 
enough.  On  one  side  of  the  hall  were  spacious  par- 
lors shrouded  in  darkness ;  opposite  was  the  library, 
and  in  this  room  sat  Mr.  Forrester,  reading. 


wm 


ADRIFT. 


47 


Bella's  interview  with  the  servants  had  prepared 
her  to  find  hini  wearing  garments  totally  unlike  the 
antique  German  ones  in  which  she  had  last  beheld 
him.  One  of  the  courtiers  who  fluttered  around 
Louis  XVI.  before  the  evil  days  came  upon  that 
hapless  monarch  might  have  worn  the  identical  cos- 
tume in  which  Marcy  Forrester  was  this  evening 
arrayed, — knee-breeches  and  full-skirted  coat  of 
black  velvet,  long  waistcoat  of  yellow  satin  richly 
embroidered  in  silver,  yellow  silk  stockings,  low 
shoes  with  diamond  buckles,  and  lace  rufHes  falling 
over  the  delicate  ivory-tinted  hands.  A  snowy  wig 
tied  in  a  queue  covered  his  head  and  gave  a  quaint 
setting  to  his  keen  old  face,  faintly  yellowish  like  his 
hands.  His  black  eyes  still  flashed  with  some  of 
their  pristine  fire,  and  his  features  were  of  that  regu- 
lar type  which  is  unchangeably  fine  to  the  end. 
Weariness  and  pain  rather  than  time  had  traced  the 
many  lines  upon  his  face,  whose  customary  expres- 
sion of  wretchedness  not  even  his  delight  at  Bella's 
visit  could  obscure. 

She  came  forward,  and  they  shook  hands  warmly ; 
her  commiseration  for  him  had  never  prompted  her 
to  encourage  any  avuncular  caresses,  nor,  to  do  him 
justice,  had  he  ever  presumed  to  offer  any. 

"  My  dear  child !  is  there  really  any  prospect  of 
your  making  more  than  one  of  your  usual  flying 
visits  to  us  ?"  were  his  first  words,  spoken  with — for 
him — very  unusual  eagerness. 

"Indeed,  yes;  this  is  only  May,  and  I  don't  think 
even  October  will  find  me  in  Buffalo." 

"  God   be  praised  1"  said  the  old   man,  devoutly. 


I, 


t: 


48 


ADRIFT, 


Hi 


"  I'm  glad  cnoupfh  to  sec  any  one  in  this  cursed 
hole,"  he  continued,  in  peevish  tones  which  ill 
befitted  the  courtly  dignity  of  his  attire,  "and  I'm 
more  glad  to  see  you,  liella,  than  any  one  else  on 
earth." 

"  You  are  very  good  to  say  so,"  returned  Bella, 
taking  a  chair  near  him, — a  low  one,  that  the  rays 
of  the  studcnt-Iamp  might  shine  full  upon  her  bright 
face  and  dark  ruddy  hair.  She  was  too  considerate 
to  seat  herself  in  shadow,  where  his  aging  eyes 
could  but  partially  discern  her  lineaments. 

"  I  am  engaged,  Bella,  in  a  diversion  which  I 
know  you  will  like,"  observed  Mr.  Forrester.  **  I 
am  trying  to  realize  in  my  own  mind  the  pre-revo- 
lutionary  period  of  France;  I  fancy  myself  one  of 
the  old  nobility  whose  greed,  extortion,  and  cruelty 
were  the  natural  prelude  to  the  Reign  of  Terror. 
And  by  Jove,  Bella!  I  haven't  the  least  difficulty  in 
entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  time!" 

Bella  could  well  believe  it,  looking  with  an  inward 
shudder  at  the  hard  malicious  face  before  her;  but 
she  merely  shook  her  head  and  said,  lightly, — 

"  Your  diversion  doesn't  appear  very  charming  to 
me.  Uncle  Marcy." 

"No?  Just  wait  till  you  see  the  gown  I've  had 
made  for  you, — lace,  brocade,  and  everything  else 
that  can  bewitch  the  feminine  soul." 

"That  sounds  alluring,"  admitted  Bella.  "And 
what  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do  in  this  wonderful 
gown  ?" 

"  Why,  we'll  read  all  the  old  authors  together ; 
we'll  recite  scenes  from  the  old  comedies ;  we'll  essay 


w 


ADRIFT. 


49 


the  minuet  de  la  cottr  to  the  sound  of  Philippe's  vio- 
lin," he  explained.  "  Though  it's  a  shame  no  one 
should  sec  you  in  your  powder  and  diamonds  but 
an  old  fossil  like  me.  But  perhaps  it  will  tax  your 
patience  too  severely  ?" 

"  Not  at  all ;  the  patience  is  yours.  Think  what 
pjood  practice  in  French  it  will  be  for  me,"  said 
Iklla,  sweetly.  "Only  I  dare  say  my  dress  is  an 
outrageous  combination  of  Queen  Anne  and  La 
Pompadour,  and  we  shall  be  living  anachronisms  in 
this  modern  room.  You  are  getting  careless  in  your 
reproduction  of  other  times  and  climes,  Undo  Marcy : 
when  you  chose  to  be  a  mandarin  a  year  ago  you 
were  so  very  Chinese  you  actually  tried  to  eat  with 
chopsticks." 

"  Yes,  I  fancy  I  carried  out  the  Celesti.n  idea 
pretty  thoroughly,"  was  the  complacent  response. 
•'  I  enjoyed  it.  The  costume  did  not  lack  dignity  so 
much  as  grace  and  convenience.  But  I  could  do 
nothing  with  my  last  attempt;  my  mind  lacks  the 
stolidity,  my  figure  the  rotundity  necessary  to  the 
proper  personation  of  a  German. 

"  I'm  sure  you  needn't  regret  it,"  observed  Bella. 

"  I've  never  done  anything  I  like  so  much  as  this 

present    pursuit,"    the    old     gentleman    continued. 

"And  I  hadn't  the  usual  difficulty  in  reconciling  the 

servants  to  their  habiliments.     Philippe  said  he  could 

stand  anything  after  the  yellow  cross-garters  I  made 

him  wear  all  winter.     Celeste  objected  a  little  to  the 

Normandy  cap,  but  I  bribed  her  with  the  gift  of  an 

immense  gold  cross.     Diana  said  she  was  surprised 

at  my  generosity." 

erf  5 


50 


ADRIFT. 


"  It's  not  for  me  to  be  surprised  at  any  kindness 
of  yours,"  said  Bella. 

"  However,  the  cross  isn't  much  more  gold  than 
Celeste  is  French,"  he  chuckled.  "  I've  had  the  p  - 
lors  refitted.  I  sent  all  the  Japanese  cabinets,  idols, 
screens,  and  vases  to  New  York,  and  exchanged 
them  for  furniture  and  draperies  in  strict  accordance 
with  the  canons  of  Louis  Seize.  I  was  devilish 
tired  of  it,  too, — there's  a  frightful  poverty  of  idea, 
of  imagination,  in  Japanese  art.  It  has  truth,  fidelity, 
I  grant ;  but  what  does  that  amount  to  ?  It's  better 
to  be  false  to  a  high  ideal  than  faithful  to  a  low 
one.  That  reminds  me, — how  is  John  ?  Is  he  still 
as  far  as  ever  from  being  finely  touched  to  any  fine 
issue  ?" 

"John  is  all  right,"  said  John's  wife,  shortly,  half 
angry,  half  amused  at  this  old  reprobate's  grand  talk 
of  ideals  and  fine  issues.  "  Did  you  get  any  verita- 
ble French  antiques.  Uncle  Marcy  ?" 

"  No,  child,  no  ;  where  is  one  to  find  antiques  in 
America  ?  But  I  didn't  care  for  them ;  all  my  life 
I've  been  a  sham,  surrounded  by  shams,  delighting 
in  them,  and  I  don't  see  but  what  in  the  long  run 
they  are  just  as  good  as  the  real  articles!" 

*'  You  have  no  right  to  say  that,  Uncle  Marcy !" 
said  Bella,  a  little  sharply.  "  You  have  no  more  ex- 
perience of  the  real  things  of  this  life  than  a  cripple 
has  of  skating  I" 

"  How  long  since  you  set  up  for  an  apostle  of  the 
good,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful,  Mrs.  Bella  ?"  sneered 
the  old  man.  *'  I  dare  say  you  have  known  some 
genuine  emotion ;  would  you  not  rather  have  died  a 


,:.,  \^ 


ADRIFT. 


51 


child  than  have  lived  to  meet  the  awful  fate  of  every 
woman  who  really  loves, — disillusion  ?" 

"Oh,"  laughed  Bella,  recovering  her  temper,  "if 
I  could  be  born  again,  I  wouldn't  choose  to  be  a 
woman  at  all ;  I'd  be  a  man,  and  I'd  drink  and  gam- 
ble and  commit  all  manner  of  sins  till  I  was  fifty. 
Then  I'd  reform." 

"  Yes,  that's  all  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Forrester,  in 
whom  these  words  probably  roused  fond  reminis- 
cences ;  "  only  you  wouldn't  live  to  be  fifty." 

"  You  did,  though !"  said  Bella,  saucily. 

"  True  ;  but  not  long  after !"  said  he.  "  You 
mustn't  say  such  things,  my  dear;  it  shocks  me, 
literally  shocks  even  me,  to  hear  you  say  you  would 
like  to  live  such  a  life  as  mine.  You  know  nothing 
about  it;  you  have  no  data  to  judge  from." 

"  I  am  unsophisticated,"  said  Bella,  "  yet  I  think 
that  I  can  understand  your  life.  Uncle  Marcy,  for 
though  of  course  I've  never  exactly  been  wicked, 
still  I  always  feel  as  if  I  were  just  going  to  be!" 

At  this  speech  Marcy  Forrester  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair  and  laughed, — laughed  so  immod- 
erately that  Philippe  and  Celeste  in  the  kitchen 
hailed  it  as  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  era.  Bella,  who 
had  not  in  the  least  meant  to  be  funny,  rose  and  put 
on  her  wrap. 

"  Come  to-morrow,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mr.  For- 
rester, cordially,  still  very  much  amused.  "  It  gives 
me  a  new  lease  of  life  to  know  that  anything  has 
power  to  make  me  laugh  so.  Philippe  will  escort 
you  home.     Good-night." 

When  she  walked  into  Diana's  parlor,  half  an  hour 


m 


■f  \.  i 


■'  m 


CI 


|tu.<i 


•  Ssr; 


.jar 


ii 


ADRIFT. 


later,  that  young  lady  glanced  up  from  her  diligent 
perusal  of  Buckle's  "  History  of  Civilization  "  to  in- 
quire,— 

"  Have  you  been  bored  ?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said 'Bella.  She  mused  a  moment. 
"  The  fact  is,  Diana,  I  recognize  a  subtle  kinship  be- 
tween Uncle  Marcy's  spirit  and  mine." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!"  said 
Diana,  severely. 


CHAPTER    V. 

•'  Let  each  man  think  himself  an  act  of  God, 

His  mind  a  thought,  his  life  a  breath  of  God ; 

And  let  each  try,  by  great  thoughts  and  good  deeds, 

To  show  the  most  of  heaven  he  hath  in  him." 

Bailey. 

"  We've  made  pretty  fair  time  to-day,  haven't  we, 
Harvey  ?" 

"  No,  we  have  not;  we've  made  just  as  poor  time 
as  the  law  allows.  I  hate  that  senseless  optimism  of 
yours,  Brooks,  that  keeps  saying,  '  Good,  good !' 
when  there  is  no  good." 

Brooks  laughed.  "  The  habit  of  looking  on  the 
bright  side  of  any  event  is  worth  a  thousand  pounds 
a  year,"  he  quoted. 

"  That's  not  my  opinion,"  said  Harvey.  "  Such  a 
habit  usually  implies  a  cowardly  evasion  of  the  ac- 
tual facts  of  the  case :  a  man  given  to  it  never  dares 
admit  honestly,  bravely,  that  anything  is  a  mis- 
fortune ;  no,  he  palters  and  shuffles  and  lies  even  to 
himself!" 


ADRIFT. 


53 


Brooks,  thus  rebuked,  laughed  again  as  he  h'ghted 
a  cigar,  while  Harvey  traversed  the  length  of  the 
smoking-car  where  this  conversation  was  held,  with 
the  incertitude  of  step  incident  to  such  a  promenade. 
These  two  companions  v/ere  both  men  in  the  early 
thirties,  both  New-Yorkers,  and  both  unmarried  ; 
but  there  all  resemblance  ended.  It  was  impossible 
to  look  into  Jerome  Harvey's  deep-set  gray  eyes 
without  seeing  that  he  was  a  man  who  lived  in 
earnest.  He  held  himself  accountable  for  every 
word,  deed,  and  thought;  he  had  never  lain  down 
to  sleep  without  the  knowledge  that  in  the  day  just 
past  he  had  done,  or  had  at  least  tried  to  do,  some- 
thing to  make  the  world  better.  He  cared  nothing 
for  the  future  or  the  past;  he  lived  wholly  in  the 
present  hour, — not  for  its  enjoyments  but  for  its 
duties.  He  had  never  known  a  passion  and  scarcely 
an  affection ;  this,  however,  perhaps  arose  from  cer- 
tain restraining  circumstances  of  his  life  rather  than 
from  innate  coldness.  His  dispos'^ion  was  gentle 
and  amiable,  and  few  persons  had  Stephen  Brooks's 
power  of  rousing  him  to  displays  of  irritability  and 
impatience. 

He  was  extremely  tall,  and  carried  himself  with 
the  unconscious  and  pardonable  pride  which  is  the 
inevitable  component  of  remarkable  stature  in  a  man. 
He  was  of  a  sinewy,  athletic  build,  without  an  ounce 
of  superfluous  flesh  on  his  frame.  He  had  that  rarest 
embellishment  of  young  American  men,  a  fine  head 
of  hair,  which  lay  in  thick,  soft  brown  waves  above  a 
broad  white  forehead.  His  features  were  good,  and 
his  earnest  eyes  seemed  to  grow  in  beauty  and  im- 

5* 


\\i. 


i 


1  ;i 


54 


ADRIFT. 


pressiveness  with  every  year  of  his  life.  The  whole 
effect  of  his  physiognomy  was  grave,  stern,  almost 
solemn,  and  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  car 
Brooks  said  to  himself  for  the  thousandth  time, — 

"  Harvey  is  more  than  ever  like  an  austere  young 
monk  of  the  Middle  Ages.  It's  easy  to  fancy  him 
in  a  brown  serge  gown,  knotted  about  the  waist  with 
his  scourge,  walking  bare-footed  from  Paris  to  Rome 
as  a  penance.  Now,  the  only  members  of  a  holy 
brotherhood  /  resemble  are  those  degenerate  fellows 
who  chiefly  delighted  in  holding  the  keys  of  the 
wine-cellar;  who  liked  to  spend  long  warm  days 
fishing  in  the  monastic  ponds,  or  lying  under  the 
oaks  with  a  pipe  in  their  mouths.  That  is  to  say, 
they  doubtless  would  have  been  smoking  if  tobacco 
had  been  given  to  humanity  in  their  day.  Although 
I'm  literary,  I  don't  suppose  any  one  would  ever 
compare  me  to  the  pale  student  monks  who  bent 
over  desks  in  their  gloomy  cells  illuminating  mis- 
sals." 

As  he  had  said,  Mr.  Brooks  was  literary.  But  as 
we  moderns,  when  we  hear  the  expression  "  old 
maid"  instinctively  call  to  mind  a  brisk,  well-dressed, 
money-making  woman  instead  of  the  dejected  crea- 
ture who  formerly  laid  unwilling  claim  to  that  title, 
so  the  writer  of  to-day  does  not  spend  all  his  days 
poring  over  dusty  tomes  to  the  neglect  of  his  person 
and  manners,  but  must  be  a  busy  man  of  the  world, 
interested  in  everything,  going  everywhere,  draw- 
ing his  inspiration  from  society  rather  than  books. 
Such  a  writer  was  Stephen  Brooks.  He  did  a  good 
deal  of  vigorous  journalistic  work,  and  could  turn 


-■Ii%:j>a'^;jjaiw.i^.  ll(WWIwaillWi»        l>(»'!W^.vM»ll^^«^«^f»«>'*^'^ 


ADRIFT. 


i% 


off  graceful  verses  and  bright  stories  as  easily  as  a 
spider  spins  silk.  It  is  often  said  that  no  class  of 
cultured  people  read  so  little  as  writers  do,  but  this 
charge  was  not  true  of  Mr.  Brooks.  He  read  omniv- 
orously  and  enjoyed  every  book  that  he  read,  being 
alike  delighted  with  the  dainty  conceits  of  Her- 
rick,  the  grossness  of  Congreve,  or  the  sublimity  of 
Milton. 

It  was,  however,  in  literature  only  that  he  pos- 
sessed this  ready  sympathy  and  comprehension.  He 
could  not  understand  the  better  impulses  which  ac- 
tuated his  fellow-men,  nor,  in  truth,  did  he  greatly 
care  to  do  so.  The  motives  of  Jerome  Harvey's  life 
in  particular  had  been  a  puzzle  to  him  ever  since 
they  were  children.  He  did  not,  like  Don  Quixote 
fighting  the  windmills,  set  himself  to  combating  the 
evil  tendencies  of  the  age;  he  thought  it  simply 
fatuous  to  erect  an  impossible  standard  of  virtue  and 
then  to  exhaust  one's  self  in  perpetual  futile  endeav- 
ors to  live  up  to  it.  He  had  the  poorest  opinion  of 
mankind,  Stephen  Brooks  included,  and  this  opinion 
his  own  conduct  constantly  tended  to  confirm  rather 
than  to  alter.  Women  he  regarded  as  immeasurably 
the  inferiors  of  men,  and  of  his  own  mother,  a  house- 
hold saint  "  oftener  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet," 
he  had  once  said, — 

'*  I  know  nothing  about  her  girlhood  and  youth. 
Of  course  she  is  good  now;  at  fifty,  what  else  is  left 
for  a  woman  ?" 

The  remark  was  made  when  he  and  Jerome  were 
little  more  than  boys,  and  the  latter  had  promptly 
knocked  him  down  for  it.     This  was  the  only  in- 


e! 


tfiS' 


5* 


ADRIFT. 


stance  where  the  hostile  calm  of  their  relations  was 
broken  by  a  blow. 

Stephen  Brooks  was  not  so  tall  as  his  friend,  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  was  slightly  heavier.  His 
closely-cropped  hair  was  black,  his  skin  a  clear 
brown  inclined  to  flush  readily,  and  it  was  a  moot 
point  among  the  fair  ones  of  his  acquaintance 
whether  his  heavily-fringed  eyes  were  black  or  dark- 
est blue.  The  closest  inspection  of  these  lustrous 
orbs  was  required  to  determine  that  the  last-men- 
tioned hue  was  theirs;  it  is,  however,  simple  jus- 
tice to  state  that  numerous  ladies  were  competent  to 
decide  th^  matter. 

These  two  utterly  dissimilar  characters  had  had 
exactly  the  same  environment  from  earliest  infancy. 
Thirty  years  before  they  are  introduced  to  the  reader, 
the  Rev.  Joseph  Brooks,  pastor  of  a  poor  little 
church  in  a  poor  little  New  England  village,  was,  in 
common  with  his  wife  and  the  rest  of  the  community, 
moved  to  exceeding  wonderment  by  the  unaccounta- 
ble behavior  of  a  man  who  was  lodging  at  the  only 
tavern  in  the  place.  This  man  wore  garments  of 
exaggerated  shabbiness,  although  he  had  the  best 
accommodations  the  house  afforded,  and  spent 
money,  according  to  the  simple  notions  of  the  place, 
like  a  prince.  His  coarse  red  hair  and  beard, 
taken  in  conjunction  with  his  pallid  brown  skin 
and  sparkling  black  eyes,  were  obviously  false,  and 
the  whole  village  agreed — for  once — that  the  man 
was  disguised,  and  that  the  disguise  was  a  very  poor 
one. 

But  if  his  appearance  was  singular,  his  conduct 


ADRIFT. 


57 


was  still  more  so.  He  had  come  to  the  tavern  on  a 
summer  afternoon,  driving  a  spirited  young  horse 
with  one  hand  and  holding  in  the  other  arm  a  crying 
child  about  a  month  old,  which  he  carried  into  the 
sitting-room  and  loudly  consigned  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  any  woman  who  would  care  for  it.  A 
nurse  soon  volunteering,  the  man  paid  her  liberally 
in  advance,  and  for  some  days  gave  himself  no  fur- 
ther concern  about  his  infant  charge.  He  told  the 
crowd  of  loungers  who  witnessed  his  arrival  that  he 
was  a  widower,  and  that  he  meant  to  settle  in  the 
village  if  upon  inspection  he  liked  it.  That  such 
was  really  his  intention  was  apparently  borne  out  by 
the  assiduity  with  which  he  questioned  the  inhabi- 
tants upon  various  points, — chiefly,  it  was  discovered 
on  comparing  notes  later,  upon  the  character  of  the 
minister,  Joseph  Brooks. 

But  on  the  fourth  evening  of  his  visit  he  abruptly 
called  for  his  bill,  paid  it,  had  the  horse  harnessed 
and  the  child  wrapped  up,  and  at  ten  o'clock  drove 
off  in  the  same  direction  whence  he  had  come. 

An  hour  later  the  Rev.  Joseph  Brooks  and  his 
wife  were  aroused  from  slumber  by  a  tremendous 
pounding  at  their  door.  On  descending,  partly 
dressed  and  very  much  startled,  they  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels  rapidly  retreating  in  the  distance, 
and  saw  lying  on  the  door-step  the  child  of  the  mys- 
terious stranger.  Mrs.  Brooks  snatched  it  to  her 
breast  and  soothed  its  crying,  while  her  husband  de- 
tached a  paper  from  the  child's  dress  and  read  it 
aloud  by  the  light  of  a  candle : 

"  I  have  been  minded  more  than  once  to  kill  this 


♦  « 


^ 


I' 

,1 


58 


ADRIFT. 


child.  I  do  not  know  what  stayed  me,  unless  it  was 
the  hand  of  his  dead  mother. 

'•  I  have  inquired  about  you,  and  learn  that  you 
are  a  man  in  a  thousand  for  purity,  for  integrity,  for 
zeal  in  good  works.  I  intrust  the  child  to  you,  with 
the  one  injunction  to  cultivate  his  moral  faculties  at 
the  expense,  if  necessary,  of  all  else. 

"  The  enclosed  amount  of  money  will  be  sent  you 
annually.     It  is  yours  to  use  as  you  please. 

*'  Call  him  Jerome  Harvey." 

Mr.  Brooks  mechanically  counted  the  roll  of  bills, 
— it  contained  rather  more  than  his  yearly  salary. 
He  saw  himself  and  his  overworked  wifj  suddenly 
raised  from  bitter  poverty  to  comparative  affluence ; 
he  felt  a  keen  delight  at  the  tribute  paid  him, — the 
higher  tribute  since  it  caine  from  a  bad,  unscrupu- 
lous man  ;  and  he  said,  solemnly, — 

"  Mary,  this  child  is  no  less  a  trust  from  God  than 
our  own  little  Stephen.  May  we  be  strengthened 
for  our  great  task  !" 

And  when  the  infant  was  asleep  in  the  crib  be- 
side Stephen,  then  a  year  old,  they  prayed  together 
over  the  children,  and  talked  throughout  the  long 
night  of  how  they  should  best  train  their  precious 
charges  for  earth  and  heaven,  and  into  what  be- 
neficent channels  they  could  turn  the  stream  of 
wealth  whose  control  was  thus  unexpectedly  put 
into  their  hands.  It  never  occurred  to  these  simple 
souls  that  the  money  might  not  be  sent ;  nor 
would  such  a  fear  have  been  justified  by  the  facts, 
for  regularly  once  a  year  arrived  a  check  signed  by 
a  prominent  firm  of  lawyers  in   New  York  for  the 


i.y 


fri>;;W«?«S*«**-: 


ADRIFT, 


59 


same  generous  sum   that  had  been   pinned  to  the 
baby's  dress. 

Mr.  Brooks  met  all  inquiries  with  the  statement 
that  little  Jerome's  mother  was  dead,  that  the  child 
had. been  confided  to  himself,  and  that  his  "keep" 
was  amply  provided  for, — of  which  latter  clause  the 
village  poor  soon  had  gratifying  proof  in  the  in- 
creased benefactions  of  their  pastor. 

Stephen  and  Jerome  grew  up  together  amid  the 
wholesome  surroundings  of  a  New  England  rural 
community.  They  had  before  them  daily  the  exam- 
ple of  two  persons  of  the  rarest  piety,  in  whom  self 
was  crucified,  and  for  whom  life  meant  only  an  op- 
portunity of  serving  God  and  man.  The  two  boys 
learned  all  that  Mr.  Brooks  could  teach  them,  and 
then  completed  their  education  at  a  college  in  a 
neighboring  town,  where  was  maintained  the  salutary 
if  severe  discipline  which  had  governed  their  exist- 
ence at  home.  They  graduated  in  a  blaze  of  glory, 
Jerome  because  he  had  carried  off  some  very  high 
honors,  Stephen  because  the  witty  and  eloquent  prize 
oration  was  his. 

The  young  men  spent  the  summer  weeks  following 
Commencement  at  the  homestead,  and  during  these 
weeks  Joseph  and  Mary  Brooks  recognized  fully  a 
fact  which  they  had  hitherto  but  dimly  discerned, — 
namely,  that  in  one  case  prayer  and  precept  and 
training  had  failed  of  their  effect.  By  the  same  uni- 
versal law  of  rotation  which  makes  the  son  of  a 
drunkard  a  total  ..bstainer  and  his  son  again  a 
drunkard,  Stephen  had  revolted  against  the  ascetic 
rules  by  which  he  had  been  brought  up,  and  was  a 


■  ■■'   -H      I.X 


e.  :■ 


;iBu 

:ls,s'r,a 


6o 


ADRIFT. 


renegade  from  his  father's  faith  and  practice.  It 
required  all  the  fortitude  engendered  in  the  minister 
and  his  wife  by  life-long  habits  of  patience  and  sub- 
mission to  support  the  anguish  of  this  discovery. 

Their  adoptive  son  was,  on  the  contrary,  all  that 
the  fondest  hopes  could  desire.  His  feeling  about 
his  unknown  parents  had  never  been  either  bitter  or 
indifferent.  From  boyhood  he  had  said  to  himself 
in  frequent  ruminations  on  the  subject, — 

"  If  they  were  worthy  people,  I  must  strive  not  to 
disgrace  them ;  if  they  were  not,  then  I  am  equally 
bound  to  rise  above  the  source  from  which  I  spring." 

This  principle  of  conduct  had  led  to  the  best  re- 
sults, and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brooks,  while  almost  heart- 
broken over  their  own  son's  apostasy,  were  yet  able 
to  rejoice  that  the  little  bud  of  humanity  flung  at 
their  door  so  many  years  since  had  blossomed  to 
such  noble  manhood. 

"  Take  care  of  Stephen,  Jerome,"  said  Stephen's 
mother,  on  the  eve  of  the  young  men's  departure  for 
New  York,  where  they  had  elected  to  enter  the  lists 
against  fortune.  "  He  is  weak  and  unstable  as  water, 
— oh,  that  I  should  live  to  say  it!  Only  your  care 
can  save  him  from  being  a  mental  and  bodily  wreck, 
as  he  is  even  now  a  spiritual  one." 

"  I  will  be  an  elder  brother — more  than  a  brother — 
to  him,  as  you  have  been  more  than  a  mother  to 
me,"  promised  Jerome,  kissing  her  little  plain  old 
face. 

And  in  the  coming  years  he  kept  his  word,  though 
Stephen  from  sheer  caution  soon  ceased  to  commit 
any  but  reasonably  wild   excesses.     Jerome  rarely 


'T-^  %1^^-i '  ---*»■"  *  ■■7W--.-fW?^ff^-JF«*i**'*W»«^«"R^ 


ADRIFT. 


6l 


let  twenty-four  hours  pass  without  seeing  his  foster- 
brother,  and  regularly  four  times  a  year  he  took  him 
as  it  were  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  haled  him 
up  to  the  little  New  England  parsonage.  One  of 
these  visits,  made  in  the  sixth  year  of  their  sojourn 
in  New  York,  was  prolonged  beyond  its  usual  limits 
by  the  illness  and  death  of  Joseph  Brooks,  and  still 
further  protracted  by  the  immediately  succeeding 
demise  of  his  wife. 

When  his  mother's  funeral  was  over,  Stephen 
thriftily  proposed  to  sell  the  house. 

"  Sell  your  birthplace,  your  boyhood's  home !" 
cried  Jerome,  in  righteous  wrath.  "  You  shall  never 
do  it,  Stephen  Brooks !"  he  declared,  taking  posses- 
sion of  the  title  deeds  in  order  that  his  vow  could 
not  be  rendered  nugatory.  "  Besides,"  he  added, 
his  indignation  subsiding,  "  it  will  be  a  capital  place 
to  come  to  for  a  quiet  honeymoon." 

"  Yours,  perhaps,"  said  Stephen.  "  Marrying  is 
not  in  my  line." 

"  It  is  certainly  not  in  mine,"  said  Jerome,  gravely. 

The  resolution  not  to  marry  had  indeed  been 
coincident  with  his  earliest  realization  of  his  position. 
It  was  enough  for  one  to  live  in  hourly  fear  of  dis- 
agreeable disclosures.  He  would  never  ask  a  girl  to 
share  this  unpleasant  expectation,  nor  risk  transmit- 
ting to  his  children  all  manner  of  ancestral  vices. 
No,  he  would  never  marry  until  the  mystery  of  his 
birth  was  cleared  up.  And  this  he  began  to  fear 
would  never  be. 

On  his  first  visit  to  New  York  he  had  sought  out 
the   lawyers  who  annually  sent  the  check   for  his 

6 


r 
»* 


1.. 

6.  •■  \ 


62 


ADRIFT. 


maintenance.  They  willingly  told  him  the  little 
they  knew.  Once  a  year  they  received  by  mail  a 
sum  of  money.  It  was  sent  in  an  unregistered  enve- 
lope in  the  most  careless  manner.  The  money  was 
always  wrapped  in  a  slip  of  paper  inscribed,  "  For 
Jerome  Harvey,  care  of  Rev.  Joseph  Brooks,  Green- 
wood, Vermont."  A  separate  bank-bill  bore  the 
firm-name  and  was  appropriated  by  them  in  payment 
for  their  services.  All  the  papers  and  envelopes  had 
been  preserved.  No  two  of  the  latter  bore  the  same 
post-mark,  which  was  usually  that  of  some  foreign 
city.  The  addresses  and  inscriptions  had  been 
formed  by  cutting  words  from  newspapers,  the 
type-writer  not  yet  being  evolved  from  its  inventor's 
brain. 

Jerome  looked  over  the  bundle  of  papers  atten- 
tively, then  flung  them  down  with  a  hopeless  sigh. 

"  I  shall  never  touch  any  mor  of  the  money,"  he 
said. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Harvey  !"  remonstrated  the  lawyer. 
"  Be  assured  the  money  would  not  be  sent  you  had 
you  not  some  moral  or  legal  right  to  it." 

"  I  shall  not  use  it,"  repeated  Jerome. 

"  But  there  is  no  means  of  notifying  the  donor  of 
your  intention.  The  money  will  continue  to  be  sent, 
and  it  seems  to  me  your  duty  to  prevent  its  lying 
idle,  to  use  it  for  some  charitable  purpose." 

After  a  few  moments'  reflection  Jerome  admitted 
the  force  of  this  observation,  and  directed  that  the 
money  should  be  sent  as  formerly  to  his  guardian. 
This  was  accordingly  done  until  Mr.  Brooks's  death, 
since  when  Jerome  had  bestowed  it  oa  various  insti- 


ADRIFT,  6^ 

tutions  for  the  care  of  orphans  and  foundlings.  The 
practice  of  his  profession — stenography — brought 
him  an  ample  support. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


"  'Twere  little  praise 
Did  full  resources  wait  on  our  good  will 
At  every  turn." 

Robert  Browning. 


W3, 


On  the  same  sunny  May  day  Bella  Forrester  had 
chosen  for  her  exodus  from  Buffalo,  Jerome  Harvey 
was  seated  at  his  desk  in  his  office.  Stephen  Brooks 
was  also  present.  He  usually  wrote  his  articles  in 
his  friend's  office,  feeling  that  he  conferred  an  honor 
upon  Harvey  by  so  doing ;  but  on  this  occasion  he 
was  not  at  work.  He  was  leaning  out  of  the  open 
window,  smoking,  and  contemplating  the  rushing 
throng  in  the  street  below,  his  own  idle  mood  in  de- 
licious contrast,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  to  their  eager 
hurry. 

"Telegraph  boy's  just  turned  into  our  stairway," 
he  announced,  presently. 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  were  but  yesterday  from 
Greenwood,  and  a  telegram  was  still  a  remarkable 
event,"  said  Harvey. 

And  so  in  this  case  it  proved  to  be.  The  boy 
cartie  into  the  room  and  departed  ;  Harvey  tore  open 
the  envelope  and  read  the  message.     He  uttered  no 


\t'x\ 


Hi 


64 


ADRIFT, 


exclamation,  and  it  was  not  until  some  minutes  later 
that  Brooks,  wearied  at  last  by  the  sight  of  the  ac- 
tivity in  the  street,  turned  from  the  window  and  ob- 
served the  startling  effect  the  telegram  had  produced. 
Harvey  still  sat  motionless,  gazing  with  wild  eyes  at 
the  paper ;  his  face  was  alarmingly  pale. 

"  What's  up,  old  fellow  ?"  said  Brooks,  shaking 
him  roughly  but  not  unkindly  by  the  shoulder.  The 
touch  served  to  rouse  Harvey  from  his  abstraction ; 
the  blood  rushed  into  his  face,  and  he  sprang  from 
his  chair. 

"  Read,  read !"  he  cried,  flinging  the  telegram  on 
his  desk  and  beginning  to  pace  the  floor  in  great  ex- 
citement. 

Brooks  took  up  the  paper  and  read  aloud  : 

"  Miss  Diana  Forrester,  of  Suspension  Bridge, 
Niagara  Co.,  N.  Y.,  can  furnish  you  with  the  in- 
formation you  desire.  Settle  your  affairs  for  a  long 
absence  and  come  at  once." 

"  Well,"  commented  Mr.  Brooks,  "  I  must  say 
the  person  who  sent  this  message — you  see  it's 
not  signed — recklessly  disregarded  economy.  A 
letter  or  a  postal  would  have  done  just  as  well, 
and " 

"  No,  no !"  exclaimed  Jerome,  sitting  down  at  his 
desk  and  beginning  to  put  his  papers  in  order. 
"  Don't  you  see  ?  This  Diana  Forrester  is  probah'y 
my  mother's  sister,  and  perhaps  she  is  dying.  A 
letter  would  have  lost  twenty  four  hours." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Brooks,  a  light  breaking  in  on  him. 
"Then  you  think  this  telegram  relates  to  your 
parentage  ?" 


'-'4 

'4 


ADRIFT. 


65 


"  Good  heavens,  yes !  What  other  information  do 
I  care  for?" 

"  I  never  thought  you  cared  very  much  for  that," 
said  Brooks,  much  surprised  at  his  friend's  agitation. 

"  Then  you  were  dull,  blind,  a  mere  sightless 
clod  !"  cried  Harvey,  impatiently.  "  Not  a  day  has 
passed  since  I  was  a  boy  that  I  haven't  longed  for 
news  of  my  family  as  the  one  chief  good  of  life. 
You  to  call  yourself  a  writer,  forsooth !  What  can 
you  invent  or  divine  that  will  be  of  interest  to  hu- 
manity when  you  never  guessed  your  bosom  friend's 
one  ambition  ?  The  minds  of  men  are  a  sealed  book 
to  you.  Stephen,  old  boy,  I  can't  face  this  knowl- 
edge, good  or  bad,  quite  alone.  Come  with  me, 
will  you  ?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Stephen,  who  would  have  been 
quite  as  willing  to  go  to  Florida  or  Nebraska.  "  Half 
hasn't  been  said  about  the  Falls  that  might  be.  Per- 
haps I  shall  write  a  novel  there." 

"  Perhaps  you  won't,"  returned  Jerome,  not  ill- 
naturedly,  but  as  if  stating  an  accepted  fact.  "  You 
know  you  will  never  have  perseverance  to  write  a 
novel.  Go  out,  now,  and  get  time-tables  and  our 
tickets." 

Brooks,  catching  something  of  his  friend's  eager- 
ness, went  briskly  out  and  executed  these  and  other 
commissions,  while  Harvey  wrote  and  despatched  a 
number  of  letters.  But  with  all  their  haste  they 
were  unable  to  take  a  train  until  the  following  morn- 
ing, and  it  was  in  the  evening  of  that  Jay,  as  they 
were   approaching    their  destination,   that    Harvey 

walked  up  and  down  the  smoking-car  and  Brooks 

t  6* 


I 


§( 

t??: 


I!: 
toil 

fcsf"' 


^ 


«pi 


i 

IT 

ill' 

I 
-IB**. 


66 


ADRIFT. 


":»■(■ 


compared  him  to  a  young  Franciscan  or  Dominican 
monk, — whichever  was  most  given  to  flagellations 
and  fasting. 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  you  so  worked  up,  Jerome," 
he  said,  as  Harvey  at  last  flung  himself  into  the  seat. 
"  I  wish  you'd  prepare  yourself  to  meet  the  worst." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  call  the  worst," 
said  Harvey.  "  I've  feared  all  manner  of  disgraceful 
things  for  thirty  years;  it  can't  be  so  bad  to  face 
only  one  of  these  contingencies." 

"  Perhaps  the  whole  thing  is  a  hoax,"  suggested 
Brooks. 

•'  Who  would  be  so  cruel?"  said  Harvey,  to  whom 
this  possibility  had  not  occurred. 

**  Lots  of  people, — some  of  the  Greenwood  girls, 
for  instance,  who  are  angry  because  you  won't  marry 
them." 

"  Every  one  in  Greenwood  ought  to  perfectly  un- 
derstand my  not  marrying." 

"  They  understand  your  feeling  in  the  matter,  and 
doubtless  think  it,  as  I  do,  equall)*^  morbid  and  ab- 
surd," rejoined  Brooks.  *'  But  this  feeling  isn't  so 
strong  as  you  think  it  is,  Jerome ;  if  you  once  meet 
the  right  girl  your  objections  to  matrimony  will 
vanish." 

Jerome  looked  at  his  watch.  "  We  shall  arrive  at 
ten, — not  too  late  for  a  business  call,"  he  observed. 

"What!  would  you  rush  into  the  presence  of  a 
dying  woman — I  believe  you've  quite  settled  that 
Miss  Forrester  is  moribund — at  that  late  hour?  Im- 
possible !"  protested  Brooks. 

"A  woman  of  feeling,  dying  or  not,  would  gladly 


s(;«WBe;fW»»S9«»  >«•«»■ -www-  w**.«wv 


ADRIFT. 


67 


put  a  relative  out  of  painful  suspense,"  affirmed 
Harvey. 

Brooks  laughed.  "A  relative,  quotha!  Why 
don't  you  call  her  your  aunt  and  be  done  with  it?  It 
would  be  funny  if  Miss  Diana  Forrester  should 
prove  a  fascinating  young  beauty,  and  no  connection 
of  yours  at  all.  Though  being  only  Miss,  she  can- 
not be  very  fascinating;  that  is  reserved  for  the 
maritated  and  widowed  women." 

"  I  cannot  conceive  how  a  man  remembering  such 
a  mother  as  yours,"  said  Jerome,  "  can  entertain  such 
odious  ideas  about  women." 

"  Mother  was  married,  of  course,"  said  Stephen, 
penitently.  "  But  she  wasn't  a  bit  fascinating,  if 
that's  what  you  want  me  to  say." 

Jerome  did  not  utter  the  retort  which  rose  to  his 
lips,  for  at  that  instant  the  brakeman  shouted  "  Sus- 
pension Bridge  1"  and  the  two  young  men  left  the 
train.  They  went  to  a  hotel,  and  while  they  regis- 
tered Harvey  could  not  refrain  from  asking  the  clerk 
if  he  knew  Miss  Diana  Forrester. 

"  Yes,  sir;  know  her  by  sight." 

"  Is  she  " — it  was  on  his  tongue  to  say  "  dying," 
but  he  substituted  "  well"  just  in  time. 

"  She  was  driving  round  town  to-day." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Harvey,  immensely  relieved. 
He  agreed  with  Brooks  that  there  was  no  pressing 
necessity  for  calling  that  night,  but  as  early  next 
morning  as  his  friend  considered  permissible,  he  set 
off  alone  and  on  foot  to  seek  the  decisive  interview. 

He  was  admitted  by  the  little  maid-servant  who 
performed  the  not  very  arduous  labors  of  Miss  For- 


^TSi^.A 


It  ■•  \ 


¥ 


68 


ADRIFT. 


M 


raster's  establishment,  and  waited  in  the  crimson  and 
olive  parlor  while  the  mistress  of  the  house  scruti- 
nized his  card  in  her  sitting-room  up-stairs. 

"Mr.  Jerome  Harvey!  I  don't  know  the  name, 
Bella;  I  have  no  idea  who  he  is." 

"  Go  down  and  find  out,"  advised  Bella. 

"  Perhaps  he  asked  for  you ;  strangers  never  pre- 
sume to  intrude  upon  me  in  this  way." 

"  You  had  better  hurry, — he  may  be  stealing  the 
tiles  out  of  the  fireplace,"  said  Bella.  And  some- 
what alarmed  for  her  treasures,  Diana  descended  the 
stairs. 

One  glance  at  her  visitor  reassured  her :  this  tall, 
grave  gentleman  was  not  a  thief.  But  his  dignity 
and  gravity  were  not  incompatible  with  the  character 
of  a  book-agent,  and  on  the  ^'.upposition  that  such 
was  his  vocation  Diana  regarded  him  with  coldly 
questioning  eyes. 

**  Miss  Forrester,  I  believe  ?"  said  Harvey. 

A  very  slight  inclination  of  the  head  was  the  re- 
ply. 

"  Permit  me  to  apologize  for  disturbing  you  at  so 
early  an  hour,"  he  continued,  a  little  disconcerted  by 
the  lady's  frigidity. 

Diana,  still  entertaining  the  book-agent  theory, 
made  no  sign  that  pardon  was  accorded. 

"  As,  however,  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  that 
my  call  was  expected,  I  ventured  to  select  the  earliest 
possible  hour  for  making  it," 

"  You  are  entirely  mistaken,"  said  Diana,  with 
great  decision.  "  Not  only  was  your  call  unex- 
pected, but  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  what  motive,  unless 


ADRIFT. 


69 


A% 


one  of  idle  curiosity,  impelled  you  to  come  here 
at  all." 

The  young  man  flushed  deeply.  He  was  as- 
tounded ;  he  had  not  thought  that  this  slender  young 
lady  with  the  soft  brown  eyes  could  speak  in  such 
distinctly  repellent  tones. 

**  You  will  admit,"  he  said,  handing  her  the  tele- 
gram, "  that  my  coming  from  New  York  City  in  re- 
sponse to  this  summons  implies  a  motive  of  greater 
force  than  idle  curiosity.' 

Diana  read  the  message ;  she  thought  it  not  im- 
probable that  he  himself  had  written  it  an  hour  pre- 
viously upon  a  blank  procured  at  the  office.  Her 
mind  reverted  to  its  original  fear  of  him, — perhaps 
even  as  she  read  the  telegram  he  was  examining  the 
doors  and  windows  with  a  view  to  a  burglarious  en- 
trance. 

"  Even  yet  I  do  not  see  why  you  have  sought  this 
interview,  nor  why  I  should  allow  it  to  be  pro- 
longed," said  Miss  Forrester. 

Harvey  was  in  a  rage.  He  felt  that  he  would  suf- 
fer anything  rather  than  owe  her  any  favors.  But 
he  was  saved  from  uttering  this  feeling  by  a  sudden 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  contrast  between  this  calm 
young  woman  and  the  doting  old  aunt  whom  he  had 
half  expected  to  fall  on  his  neck  with  tears  and 
caresses.  He  smiled,  and  after  an  appreciable  pause 
said,  in  as  winning  a  manner  as  he  could  command, — 

"  I  perceive,  Miss  Forrester,  that  you  did  not  sum- 
mon me  here,  and  once  more  I  ask  pardon  for  this 
intrusion.  But  it  is  possible  you  can  furnish  me 
witli  a  clue  to  the  sender  of  that  message.     You  will 


<tv 


p 


-tsi.1. 


70 


ADRIFT. 


I  'I 


understand  my  pertinacity  w!.en  I  tell  you  that  I 
hope  the  information  promised  therein  concerns  my 
parentage,  of  which  I  am  wholly  ignorant." 

Diana  was  so  startled  by  these  words  that  she 
dropped  into  a  chair,  though  she  still  carefully  re- 
frained from  asking  her  visitor  to  do  so.  She 
divined  instantly  who  had  sent  the  telegram.  So 
here  was  another  person  whom  Marcy  Forrester  had 
compelled  to  remain  worse  than  orphaned  all  his 
life !  She  felt  a  faint  stirring  of  sympathy,  so  faint, 
however,  that  she  was  able  to  repress  it  quickly. 
What !  was  she  to  make  common  cause  with  a 
stranger  in  this  disgraceful  quest  ? 

"  I  know  nothing  about  this  icspatch,"  she  said, 
restoring  it  to  the  young  man. 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly,  suspecting  that  she 
could  have  told  him  something,  but  he  merely  said, — 

"  I  regret  to  have  troubled  you  so  much.  I  dare 
say  I  shall  discover  what  I  wish  to  know  without 
your  aid." 

"  I  hope  you  will  Se  successful,"  said  Diana,  with 
an  approach  to  cordiality. 

To  which  polite  aspiration  Jerome  responded  by  a 
grave,  unsmiling  bow,  and  took  his  departure. 

Returning  to  the  hotel,  he  flung  himself  into  a 
chair  beside  his  friend  and  awaited  the  latter's 
queries. 

"  Was  she  fascinating  ?"  Brooks  asked,  with  breath- 
less interest. 

"  She  was  young  and  not  bad-looking ;  but  she 
was  the  most  intensely  disagreeable  woman  I  ever 
met." 


■m 


ADRIFT. 


71 


"  Well,  there's  a  certain  fascination  in  that,"  af- 
firmed Brooks.  "  To  make  the  cold  eyes  melt  with 
tenderness,  the  sharp  tongue  utter  soft  endear- 
ments  " 

•'  Oh,  hold  your  tongue !"  interrupted  Harvey,  im- 
patiently. "  She  gave  me  no  help ;  if  she  knows 
anything,  she  won't  tell.  Can't  you  suggest  some- 
thing?" 

"  If  you  simply  intrust  the  matter  to  me  there  will 
be  no  difficulty  about  it,"  Brooks  declared,  and  Har- 
vey professing  his  entire  willingness  to  do  this,  he 
proposed  making  investigation  at  the  telegraph-office. 

Their  inquiries  were  met  by  an  unqualified  refusal 
to  reveal  anything  about  the  despatch. 

"  You  must  know ;  this  is  a  small  town,  and  it  was 
sent  only  three  days  ago,  and  you  can't  have  for- 
gotten," insisted  Brooks. 

"  Anonymous  telegrams  are  frequently  sent,  and 
are  treated  by  the  companies  as  inviolable  secrets, 
the  same  as  other  social  or  business  communica- 
tions," explained  the  operator.  '*  I  should  be  dis- 
missed from  the  service  were  I  to  give  any  informa- 
tion respecting  such  a  message." 

"  Thus  you  see,  Jerome,"  said  Brooks,  as  they  left 
the  office,  "  one  person  may  with  impunity  address 
another  by  telegraph  in  words  of  love,  hatred,  defi- 
ance, or  contempt,  as  his  passions  may  dictate,  and 
then  he  may  laugh  the  deep,  dark,  ominous  ha! 
ha !  of  the  villain,  without  fear  of  detection.  Cheer 
up,  old  fellow !  the  case  is  by  no  means  hopeless. 
What  do  you  say  to  a  drive  as  a  means  of  banishing 
your  despondency?" 


us?l 


'     'T' 


i 


72 


ADRIFT. 


%m 


"Anything  you  like,"  assented  Harvey,  and  ac- 
cordingly they  spent  the  afternoon  driving  from  one 
point  of  interest  to  another ;  but  they  had  both  vis- 
ited the  place  many  times,  and  neither  regarded  the 
scenery  very  appreciatively.  Harvey  in  particular 
was  so  abstracted  that  his  companion  took  refuge  in 
conversation  with  the  driver. 

"  Ye're  right,  they  do,"  said  the  latter,  in  answer 
to  a  query  as  to  whether  the  Falls  did  not  bring 
many  singular  people  to  the  vicinity.  "  This  is  the 
worst  place  in  the  world  for  cranks.  There's  sui- 
cides by  the  dozen,  an'  there's  the  men  that  want  to 
jump  off  the  bridges,  an'  them  that  wants  to  swim 
the  Whirlpool  Rapids  like  poor  Webb.  But  the 
queerest  crank  that  ever  came  here  has  stayed." 

"  Under  the  Falls,  I  suppose  you  mean  ?"  said 
Brooks,  jocularly. 

"  No,  sir ;  he's  livin*  yet.  He  dresses  like  a  Chinee 
half  the  time,  an'  he  eats  nothin'  but  Graham 
crackers  an'  water,  an'  he*s  that  rich  he  fixes  up  his 
parlor  every  three  months,  throwin'  all  the  old  furni- 
ture over  the  river-bank." 

**  These  are  indeed  the  eccentricities  of  genius," 
observed  Brooks,     *'  What's  his  name  ?" 

"  Forrester, — Marcy  Forrester." 

The  young  men  exchanged  a  glance  of  triumph. 
Why  had  they  not  thought  of  asking  if  there  were 
any  other  j^crsons  of  that  name  in  town  ? 

"Where  does  he  live?"  inquired  Harvey. 

**  Down  on  the  river-bank,  first  house  beyond  Miss 
Diana  Forrester's." 

"  Drive  straight  there,  then  !" 


ADRIFT. 


n 


"No,"  interposed  Brooks,  "drive  back  to  the 
hotel.  It's  dinner-time  now,  Harvey,  and  I'll  walk 
over  to  Marcy  F' rrester's  with  you  in  the  gloaming." 


CHAPTER    VII. 

**  For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea, 
Poised  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  Fate, 
Which  hangs  uncertain  to  which  side  to  fall ; 
And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land. 
Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea, — 
Back  out  to  sea,  to  the  deep  waves  of  death, — 
We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make  us  know ; 
Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour." 

Matthew  Arnold. 

"  Well,  Uncle  Marcy !  What  do  you  think  of  me? 
Do  I  look  a  thorough  grande  dame  ?  Or  do  I  dis- 
grace my  magnificent  costume  ?" 

Bella  Forrester,  descending  the  stairway  of  her 
uncle's  house,  asked  these  questions  lightly  and 
without  any  misgivings  as  to  what  the  answer  would 
be.  The  old  gentleman  was  waiting  for  her  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  and  she  laughed  as  she  noted  the 
rapid  change  of  his  expression  from  doubtful  expect- 
ancy to  proud  delight.  He  took  her  hand  and  led 
her  forward,  scrutinizing  her  from  head  to  foot,  and 
uttering  the  most  extravagant  encomiums.  They 
made  a  very  quaint  and  striking  picture  darkly 
framed  by  the  rich  Oriental  hangings  of  the  square 

hall,, — the  old   man,  in  his   yellow  satin  and  black 
D  7 


'  ■  (i 


\\ 


fi'd 


74 


ADRIFT. 


'te 


velvet  court  suit,  his  thin  worn  face  lit  up  by  an 
eager  interest,  and  the  young  woman  all  smiles  and 
blushes,  as  innocently  pleased  with  her  trained  Wat- 
teau  dress  as  a  child  wearing  her  mother's  finery. 
Philippe  and  Celeste,  in  the  background,  could  not 
restrain  their  admiration. 

"  Are  you  truly  satisfied  with  me  ?"  asked  Bella. 

"  More — much  more  than  satisfied,  my  dear,"  said 
Mr.  Forrester,  warmly.  "  I  never  in  all  my  life  saw 
a  more  charming  woman  than  you  are  this  minute. 
The  only  thing  we  have  to  regret  is  that  my  opinion 
cannot  be  endorsed  by  younger  eyes  and  lips  than 
my  own." 

'*  You  know  perfectly  well,  Uncle  Marcy,  that  the 
compliments  of  a  brainless,  tasteless  young  man  are 
not  needed  to  re-enforce  yours, — you  who  have  seen 
the  fair  ladies  of  every  court  in  Europe,"  said  Bella. 
"  But  now  shall  we  proceed  to  our  reading  ?" 

"Yes;  you  may  go  directly  into  the  parlor.  I 
will  bring  the  books  from  the  library  and  join  you 
in  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Forrester,  and  accordingly 
they  went  into  the  two  opposite  rooms.  Just  at  this 
juncture  the  door-bell  gave  a  peal  that  rang  through 
the  house  with  insistent  reverberations. 

So  very  rarely  was  Mr.  Forrester's  threshold 
crossed  by  a  visitor  that  this  intimation  of  the  ad- 
vent of  one  produced  a  decided  sensation.  Bella, 
coquettishly  disporting  herself  before  the  mirrors 
which  lined  the  parlor  walls,  smiled  to  think  that 
after  all  some  one  besides  Marcy  Forrester  would 
see  her ;  that  gentleman  hastily  put  down  the  books 
he  was  gathering  up,  exclaiming,  "  So  soon  ?"  while 


t* 


ADRIFT. 


n 


his  face  betrayed  unmingled  vexation;  Celeste,  in 
quite  a  flutter  of  surprise,  hurried  to  perform  the  un- 
accustomed duty  of  opening  the  hall-door. 

"  Can  I  see  Mr.  Marcy  Forrester  ?"  asked  Jerome 
Harvey. 

"  No,  sorr ;  it  is  well  known  that  Mr.  Forrester 
niver  sees  any  one  widout  an  appointment." 

"  Oh,  speak  again,  bright  angel !"  murmured 
Brooks,  enraptured  by  the  incongruity  of  her  accent 
and  her  dress. 

"  I  must  see  Mr.  Forrester  on  business  of  the  ut- 
most importance,"  said  Harvey,  impatiently. 

"  Thin  yez  must  go  away  an'  write  him  a  letther, 
an'  if  he  wants  to  see  yez  he'll  write  whin  yez  can 
come,"  explained  Celeste.  She  had  imbibed  enough 
of  her  master's  spirit  to  enjoy  the  angry  and  dis- 
appointed expression  on  the  young  man's  face. 

But  at  that  moment  a  voice  called  from  the 
library,  '  The  gentleman  is  expected.  Celeste ;  you 
may  show  him  in."  And  Celeste  was  forced  to 
obey. 

A  difficulty,  however,  presented  itself, — there  were 
two  gentlemen,  the  taller  of  whom  she  ushered  into 
Mr.  Forrester's  presence ;  the  other  she  hardly  knew 
what  to  do  with.  After  a  moment  she  decided  that 
she  ought  not  to  admit  him  into  the  parlor  without 
Mrs.  Forrester's  permission,  and,  pushing  forward 
one  of  the  high  hall-chairs  of  Spanish  leather,  said, 
"  Plaze  be  sated,  sorr !"  and  left  him. 

Marcy  Forrester  scanned  closely  the  young  man 
who  advanced  towards  him,  and  in  the  first  glance 
recognized  two  facts, — that   he   should  never   like 


^^*- 


I. 
r 

f:!t  !::; 


^6  ADRIFT. 

Jerome  Harvey,  and  that  he  could  not  withhold  from 
him  a  certain  grudging  respect  and  admiration. 

"  I  believe,  sir,  you  are  the  person  who  sent  me 
this  telegram  ?"  said  Harvey.  He  was  so  possessed 
by  a  sense  of  the  critical  importance  of  this  inter- 
view that  he  chafed  under  the  necessity  of  at  least 
beginning  it  in  a  calm  and  decorous  frame  of  mind. 

The  old  man  made  no  pretence  of  looking  at  the 
telegram.  "  Yes,  I  sent  for  you,"  he  replied,  still 
keenly  observant  of  Harvey's  tall,  lithe  figure  and 
earnest  face.  "  Take  a  chair.  I  trust  you  had  no 
great  trouble  in  finding  me  out?" 

"  Very  little,"  said  Harvey,  seating  himself.  "  Since 
you  cared  to  mystify  me  at  all,  I  wonder  you  did  not 
make  the  process  more  complete." 

"  It  was  not  worth  while ;  when  you  arrive  at  my 
age  you  will  find  that  very  few  things  are  worth 
while,"  said  Mr.  Forrester,  jauntily.  "  Besides,  do 
not  you  think  thirty  years  a  long  enough  mystifi- 
cation ?" 

Harvey,  annoyed  at  this  light  reference  to  a  mat- 
ter so  painful  to  himself,  remained  silent.  Mr.  For- 
rester presently  resumed : 

"  Thirty  years ;  yes,  it  is  over  thirty  years  since  you 
were  put  in  the  keeping  of  the  Rev.  Joseph  Brooks." 

"  You  are,  I  conclude,  the  man  who  left  me  with 
Mr.  Brooks  ?"  said  Harvey,  in  a  tone  whose  tense 
anxiety  only  made  Mr.  Forrester  more  careless  and 
jaunty. 

"  My  dear  young  sir,  you  jump  at  conclusions 
very  hastily,"  he  remonstrated.  "  You  have  not  the 
slightest  warrant  for  such  an  assertion." 


MfiM 


ADRIFT.  M 

"  Nevertheless,  I  repeat  it,"  said  Harvey.  "  And 
let  me  beg  that  now,  after — as  you  say — thirty  years' 
mystification,  you  will  at  last  adopt  a  straightforward 
course  and  tell  me  all  that  it  concerns  me  to  know." 

"A  straightforward  course,"  said  Mr.  Forrester, 
musingly.  "  I  must  have  heard  that  phrase  some- 
where; it  ha"!  a  familiar  ring;  and  yet  it  conveys  no 
meaning  to  my  mind." 

**  I  can  easily  understand  that,"  said  Harvey,  "since 
a  straightforward  course  is  evidently  the  one  of  all 
others  you  have  never  adopted." 

•'  Exactly  so,"  said  Mr.  Forrester.  **  I  have  always 
enjoyed  cheating  and  hoodwinking  persons  less  as- 
tute than  myself;  and  when  I  cease  to  enjoy  this 
diversion  I  shall  be  dead." 

"  I  am,  then,  to  infer  that,  not  content  with  keep- 
ing me  from  my  infancy  in  the  most  humiliating  posi- 
tion conceivable,  you  intend  to  employ  your  talents 
in  giving  me  still  greater  pain  ?"  said  Harvey.  He 
longed  to  plant  a  blow  in  the  smirking  yellow  face ; 
only  the  fact  that  Marcy  Forrester  was  old  enough 
to  be — and  very  possibly  was — his  father  restrained 
him.. 

"Admirably  put,  Mr.  Harvey!  you  have  stated 
my  intention  to  a  nicety.  But  who  knows  that  I 
may  not  tell  the  truth  one  of  these  days  ?  Mind,  I 
do  not  encourage  the  hope." 

"You  will;  I  know  you  will!"  said  Harvey. 
"  Sir,  you  would  not  withhold  the  truth  a  single 
moment  if  you  knew  my  anxiety.  I  long  for  the 
affection,  the  ties  of  blood,  denied  me  all  my  life. 
And  some  one  who   should  be   dear  to  me — my 

7* 


{5 


t    I 


frr 

I 
i 


■fj! 


ADRIFT. 

moth'^r,  perhaps — may  be  suffering  for  help  that  I 
might  render !" 

"  You  are  very  brave,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Most 
men,  situated  as  you  are,  would  prefer  to  let  their 
mother's  history  remain  an  unknown  quantity." 

Harvey  might  have  resented  this  implication  had 
he  not  just  adopted  the  charitable  supposition  that 
his  host  was  mad. 

"Sir,  I  no  longer  entreat, — I  demand  that  you 
shall  tell  me  who  I  am,"  he  said,  at  his  gravest  and 
sternest.     "  In  case  you  refuse " 

"You  will  'et  loose  the  dogs  of  war?"  said  Mr. 
Forrester,  smiling  amiably.  **  The  pleasant  custom 
of  extorting  truth  by  the  rack  has,  I  believe,  lately 
fallen  into  desuetude ;  nor  do  I  now  recall  any  court 
of  law  which  would  be  likely  to  assume  jurisdiction 
in  the  case." 

He  paused  to  laugh  a  little ;  it  was  a  slow,  luxuri- 
ous laugh,  like  an  epicure's  dainty  sipping  of  some 
rich  wine;  it  seemed  to  imply  that  it  was  but  the 
first  of  many  laughs  Mr.  Forrester  expected  to  enjoy 
at  Mr.  Harvey's  expanse.  The  latter  gentleman 
wished  he  had  brought  his  friend  into  the  room  with 
him:  Brooks  possessed  powers  of  innuendo  and  in- 
sult which  Harvey  thought  would  be  finely  matched 
with  this  old  man's. 

"  I  am  the  only  person  on  earth  who  knows  your 
history,"  Mr.  Forrester  presently  proceeded.  "  It 
would  be  perfectly  useless  for  you  to  attempt  to 
trace  my  actions  of  thirty  years  ago.  I  have  never 
lived  six  months  in  any  one  place, — that  is,  till  I  was 
forced  to  come  to  this  cursed  hole, — nor  have"  I  often 


ADRIFT. 


79 


in  the  course  of  my  life  made  use  of  my  own  name. 
You  perceive  you  will  never  learn  the  truth  unless 
you  learn  it  from  me.  And  there  is  no  reason  what- 
ever why  I  should  divulge  it  without  being  well 
paid." 

"  You  must  know  that  I  am  a  poor  man,"  said 
Harvey. 

"  My  dear  sir,  do  not  affront  me  by  a'luding  to 
money !  No ;  the  price  of  the  important  disclosure 
you  wish  me  to  make  is  simply  that  you  will  visit 
me,  will  spend  some  weeks  under  my  roof." 

It  was  Harvey's  turn  to  laugh,  which  he  did  very 
genuinely.  "  Your  terms  are  exorbitant,"  he  re- 
turned. 

"  Not  so,"  said  Mr.  Forrester,  almost  eagerly. 
"The  house  is  comfortable,  the  surroundings  pic- 
turesque. As  for  society,  you  will  have,  besides  my 
own,  that  of  two  young  women.  You  need  not  say 
that  ladies*  society  has  little  attraction  for  you, — it  is 
perfectly  obvious  to  me.  But  one  of  these  young 
women  is  simply  charming,  and  to  know  her  will  be 
quite  a  liberal  education  for  you." 

"  I  have  a  friend  here  with  me,"  lemarked  Harvey. 
To  his  surprise  he  found  himself  actually  considering 
the  proposal. 

"  Is  your  friend — ahem  ! — at  all  like  yourself?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Forrester,  apprehensively. 

"No"  said  Harvey,  smiling;  "he  is  as  different 
from  me  as  possible." 

"  Then  bring  him  with  you  by  all  means.  I  am 
sure  he  must  be  a  delightful  person,"  said  the  old 
man,  cordially. 


1* 


8o 


ADRIFT, 


i! 


"  I  will  think  over  the  matter,"  said  Harvey,  rising 
to  go,  "  and  will  let  you  know  my  decision  in  the 
morning.  But  it  seems  so  absurd.  Are  you  quite 
sure  you  will  not  speak  upon  any  other  condition  ?" 

"Absolutely  sure,"  said  Mr.  Forrester;  and  though 
his  sarcastic  smile  remained  unchanged,  there  came 
into  his  face  a  certain  expression  of  inflexibility  which 
Harvey  was  not  slow  to  observe. 

The  young  man  paused  at  the  door  and  looked 
back.  He  felt  only  a  grave,  sad  pity  for  this  poor 
old  man  in  his  bedizened  costume,  uttering  his  un- 
lovely gibes  and  taunts.  But  this  of  course  he  could 
not  speak,  and  he  only  said,  as  he  was  about  to  open 
the  door, — 

"  May  I  ask  you,  sir,  why  you  chose  to  send  me 
to  Miss  Diana  Forrester?  You  knew  she  was  quite 
unable  to  help  me." 

"  Do  you  not  see  ?  I  did  it  merely  for  the  purpose 
of  annoying  her." 

*•  You  must  have  been  rather  hard  up  for  amuse- 
ment," Harvey  commented. 

"  I  regarded  my  action  not  as  amusement,  but  as 
a  duty,"  the  old  gentleman  explained.  "  When  you 
are  better  acquainted  with  Miss  Forrester  you  will 
see  that  it  is  every  one's  imperative,  sacred  duty  to 
torment  her  to  the  fullest  extent  of  his  power." 

"  Oh !  Well,  I  wish  you  a  good-night,"  said 
Harvey.  He  went  into  the  hall,  where  he  found 
Brooks  awaiting  him,  and  they  left  the  house  to- 
gether. 

But  Mr.  Stephen  Brooks  had  not  spent  the  inter- 
val during  which  this  conversation  took  place  in  the 


■lf>WM«'WV"rffJ'i.'.rWagTI| 


ADRIFT. 


8i 


hall.  He  did,  indeed,  pass  a  few  moments  after  his 
friend  left  him  in  inspecting  the  curious  hangings 
and  furniture  of  that  apartment ;  then  he  resolved  to 
explore  the  premises  further,  the  consideration  that 
he  had  no  shadow  of  right  to  do  so  being,  as  usual 
with  him,  entirely  inoperative. 

Not  wishing  to  follow  either  Harvey  or  Celeste, 
he  refrained  from  opening  the  doors  through  which 
these  persons  had  vanished ;  a  third  door  he  deter- 
mined to  enter.  But  with  his  hand  upon  the  handle 
of  the  door  he  paused,  arrested  by  a  sudden  strange 
premonition  such  as  poor  Fatima  ought  to  have  felt 
on  the  threshold  of  Blue  Beard's  fatal  closet.  He 
knew  for  one  instant  that  it  would  be  better  for  him 
if  he  never  opened  that  door ;  the  next  instant  he 
boldly  turned  the  handle  and  entered  the  parlor. 

He  saw  a  spacious  room,  brightly  yet  softly 
lighted  by  many  wax  tapers  in  crystal  candelabra 
and  delicate  brass  sconces ;  a  large  chandelier,  all 
a-glitter  with  quivering  prisms,  hung  from  the  ceil- 
ing, which  was  painted  to  represent  a  pale-blue  sky 
half  veiled  with  pearly  clouds.  The  walls  were 
draped  with  azure  silk,  which  the  weaver's  art  had 
thickly  strewn  with  white,  pink,  and  creamy  roses. 
The  curtains  were  of  pink  silk ;  the  furniture,  of  an 
ivory  whiteness  arabesqued  in  gold,  was  upholstered 
with  the  same  rosy  silk.  There  was  not  a  dark  color 
or  a  straight  line  in  the  room  ;  beauty,  luxury  alone 
had  been  consulted  in  its  decoration.  It  was  a  holi- 
day room,  and  Mr.  Brooks's  first  thought  was  that 
his  nineteenth-century  business-suit  was  oddly  out 
of  place  in  it. 
/ 


♦■■• 


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82 


ADRIFT. 


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His  second  thought  was  that  the  lady  who  turned 
away  from  the  mirror  on  his  entrance  was  more  fhan 
worthy  of  her  environment.  The  ample  train  swclj.  - 
ing  back  from  her  graceful  figure  was  of  faint-green 
satin ;  yellow  lace  draped  the  front  of  the  gown, 
caught  here  and  there  with  pearl  beads.  From  the 
low  square-cut  corsage  her  neck,  encircled  with 
strands  of  small  pearls,  rose  pure  and  white ;  her 
hair  was  snowily  powdered.  The  effect  of  the  white 
and  faintly-green  costume  was  deliciously  fresh  and 
cool. 

Mr.  Brooks  regarded  this  charming  apparition  a 
moment  in  silence,  closing  the  door  behind  him  as 
if  unconscious  of  his  action.     Then  he  said, — 

"  I  fear  I  intrude." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Bella,  with  calm  politeness. 
"  This  is  the  reception-room ;  the  servant  was  quite 
right  to  usher  you  in  here.  But  should  you  not 
have  gone  into  the  library?  For  I  think — I  may  be 
wrong — but  I  think  you  are  Mr.  Jerome  Harvey,  of 
whom  I  heard  a  little  this  morning.     Are  you  not?" 

"  Good  heavens,  no !  I  would  rather  be  shot  than 
be  Jerome  Harvey  !"  cried  Mr.  Brooks,  startled  into 
candor.  "  But  permit  me  to  make  an  inference  in 
return, — I  fancy  you  are  Miss  Diana  Forrester." 

Bella  shook  her  head,  smiling.  Loyalt}'-  to  her 
friend  and  hostess  prevented  her  saying  that  she 
would  rather  be  shot  than  exchange  her  identity  for 
that  estimable  young  woman's ;  but  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  the  prism-hung  chandelier  with  an  expres- 
sion of  devout  gratitude  as  she  replied, — 

"You  too  are  mistaken.     Still,  since  you  are  not 


ADRIFT.  §^ 

Mr.  Harvey,  and  I  am  not  Miss  Forrester,  I  suppose 
we  ought  to  feei  perfectly  well  acquainted?" 

The  young  man  smiled  as  if  he  fully  appreciated 
the  force  of  this  occult  reasoning.  "  I  am  only  too 
willing,"  he  said,  and  a  little  silence  succeeded. 

Neither  of  these  persons,  ordinarily  so  fluent  of 
.speech,  knew  exactly  what  to  say  to  the  other. 
Stephen  Brooks  was  in  a  manner  overwhelmed  by 
the  unexpectedness  and  strangeness  of  this  meeting. 
Bella  felt  that  her  masquerade,  however  pretty,  was 
scarcely  dignified,  and  she  was  more  annoyed  than 
pleased  by  the  admiration  in  the  stranger's  eyes, — 
were  his  eyes  black  or  dark,  dark  blue  ? 

"  But  of  course  it  is  only  my  dress,"  she  reassured 
herself. 

Presently  Mr.  Brooks  ventured  to  remark,  "  When 
I  came  into  the  room  I  fancied  for  a  moment  that  I 
was  dreaming.  It  seemed  impossible  the  Parisian 
salon  of  a  hundred  years  ago  could  be  so  perfectly 
reproduced." 

"  The  illusion  was  of  course  dispelled  the  instant 
your  glance  rested  on  me,"  said  Bella,  with  her  sweet 
smile. 

"  No ;  when  I  saw  you  I  imagined,  I  hoped  that 
you  were  some  gay  marquise  come  back  from  the 
eternal  shades  for  a  brief  bright  hour,  rather  than  a 
living  woman." 

"  You  hoped  so  ?"  said  Bella.     "  And  pray  why  ?" 

He  hesitated.  Then, — "Some  day  I  will  tell  you," 
he  said,  quietly. 

An  angry  flush  swept  over  Bella's  face.  This 
utter  stranger  to  talk  of  "  some  day !"     She  did  not 


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rebuke  his  presumption  in  words,  but  she  looked  at 
him  so  steadily,  so  haughtily,  that  his  eyes  quailed. 
He  did  not  dare  speak  again,  and  it  was  several 
minutes  before  she  chose  to  reopen  conversation 
on  an  impersonal  topic. 

They  talked  of  the  weather  and  the  river  until 
Brooks  heard  Harvey's  voice  in  the  hall.  He  rose 
at  once. 

"  My  friend  is  going,"  he  said.  "  Allow  me  to  re- 
gret that  I  must  go  too.     Good-evening." 

Bella  bowed  coldly,  and  he  left  the  room.  She 
was  still  a  little  ofifended,  but  she  soon  forgot  her  re- 
sentment in  thinking  how  agreeable  it  would  be  to 
relate  this  piquant  adventukc  to  Jack  and  Diana. 
Diana  would  scold,  but  not  Jack. 

As  the  young  men  walked  back  to  the  hotel, 
Harvey  laid  Marcy  Forrester's  invitation  before 
Brooks.  The  latter  advised  acceptance  thereof, 
concluding  his  argument  in  its  favor  in  these  words : 

**  And,  as  he  says,  the  place  is  comfortable.  You 
saw  that  I  took  a  peep  at  the  parlor.  I  opened  the 
eyes  of  a.stonishment  when  I  saw  it,  I  assure  you. 
It's  a  perfect  gem." 

"  No  one  in  the  room  ?"  asked  Harvey. 

"  No  one,"  said  Brooks. 

It  is  only  the  tyro  in  tender  affairs  who  boasts  of 
every  word  and  glance  he  exchanges  with  a  pretty 
woman ;  the  man  of  experience  maintains  at  all 
hazards  a  discreet  silence  on  the  subject. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


This  awful  waste  of  waters  wild  and  white, 

The  liquid  pearly  spray  dashed  high  in  air, 
The  turquoise  depths,  the  wooded  rocky  height, 

To  every  soul  a  several  message  bear. 
To  many  a  one  the  torrent's  endless  surge 

Shall  seem  the  cruel  voice  of  dark  despair. 
To  some  a  battle-cry,  to  some  a  dirge, 

While  some  a  wedding-song  shall  hearken  there. 
Some  in  that  grand  eternal  thunder  tone 

Shall  hear  an  angel  trumpet  "  God  is  great!" 
Some  mark  the  echo  of  pain's  helpless  moan. 

Or  list  the  sob  of  grief,  the  doom  of  fate. 
To  me,  the  water's  mad  and  hurrying  press 
An  image  seems  of  strange  confused  distress. 


C 


When  the  young  men  had  for  two  weeks  partaken 
of  Mr,  Marcy  Forrester's  hospitality,  they  freely  con- 
fessed to  each  other  that  the  time  had  passed  in  an 
extremely  agreeable  manner.  Harvey  felt  an  un- 
wonted peace  in  the  thought  that  in  a  few  weeks  at 
farthest  he  should  receive  the  key  to  his  life-long 
puzzle,  and  for  the  first  time  he  ceased  to  fear  that 
the  revelations  would  be  humiliating.  As  for  Brooks, 
he  had  the  faculty  of  enjoying  himself  in  any  circum- 
stances; he  brov/sed  upon  Mr.  Forrester's  book- 
shelves, or  listened  to  that  gentleman's  acute  obser- 
vations, or  accompanied  his  friend  to  call  upon  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Forrester,  with  apparently  equal  pleasure. 

For  already  these  four  persons  were  on  terms,  if 

not  of  intimacy,  at  least  of  great  kindliness.    There 

8  85 


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ADRIFT. 


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had  been  gay  little  dinners  at  Marcy  Forrester's 
house,  to  which  Diana  had  responded  with  a  high 
tea;  there  had  b^.n  whist  and  euchre  parties;  there 
had  been  plans  made  for  strolls  and  drives  through- 
out the  supremely  picturesque  vicinity. 

The  first  of  these  plans  was  carried  into  effect  on 
a  lovely  day  in  mid-June.  Mr.  Forrester,  to  whom 
a  walk  around  Goat  Island  was  an  impossible  feat, 
declined  to  be  of  the  party,  but  placed  his  carriage 
at  their  disposal.  Philippe  was  happy,  it  being  only 
when  driving  or  going  upon  errands  that  he  was 
permitted  to  assume  modern  American  habiliments. 

Diana  had  at  first  shrunk  from  the  appearance  of 
evil  involved  in  passing  the  whole  afternoon  with 
two  young  men.  "  But  surely,"  Bella  had  argued, 
"  you  are  old  enough  to  protect  me,  and  I'm  married 
enough  to  protect  you."  And  in  consequence  of 
this  or  some  other  consideration,  Diana  put  aside 
her  scruples. 

They  left  the  carriage  in  the  village  and  set  out  on 
foot  to  visit  Goat  Island.  It  was  the  first  time  they 
had  all  walked  in  company,  yet  it  was  seemingly  by 
the  volition  of  no  one  in  particular  that  Mr.  Harvey 
and  Miss  Forrester,  Mr.  Brooks  and  Mrs.  Forrester, 
paired  off  together. 

They  went  first  into  Prospect  Park,  a  beautifully- 
kept  enclosure  with  noble  trees  and  smooth  green 
turf,  situated  just  at  the  brink  of  the  Falls.  After 
the  river  sweeps  over  the  precipice  it  turns  at  a  right 
angle,  so  that  the  water  is  almost  on  a  level  with  the 
land  on  one  side  of  Prospect  Park,  while  on  the 
adjacent  side  it  is  one  hundred   and  sixty-five  feet 


ADRIFT. 


87 


below.  The  torrent  dashes  by  with  its  old  sleepless 
force,  dissolving  as  it  falls  into  feathery  lightness ; 
the  spray,  like  melted  pearl,  is  wafted  up  in  immense 
clouds.  From  the  foot  of  the  Falls  great  soft  masses 
of  creamy  foam  float  away,  looking  from  above  like 
tiniest  flecks  on  the  turquoise  water,  "  where  like  a 
shoaling  sea  the  lovely  blue  plays  into  green."  Im- 
mense black  rocks  rise  like  angiy  sea-monsters  out 
of  the  white  waves  that  forever  lash  their  dripping 
sides.  Across  the  river  the  Canadian  bank  lies  in 
shadow,  and  there  are  soft  purple  glooms  between 
the  dark  pine-trees. 

The  four  advanced  to  the  broad  stone  parapet 
which  secures  immunity  from  danger  of  falling,  and 
gazed  down  into  the  abyss. 

'*  Do  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Brooks,  raising  his 
voice  in  order  to  be  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  cata- 
ract, "  I've  observed  a  peculiarity  about  this  spot : 
one  always  thinks  exactly  the  same  thing  he  thought 
the  previous  time  he  was  here." 

"Yes,  I've  noticed  that,  too,"  said  Bella,  "I've 
never  looked  over  this  parapet  without  feeling  more 
strongly  than  at  any  other  time  in  my  life  my  own 
insignificance.  I  see  that  I  am  even  a  smaller  speck 
in  the  scheme  of  creation  than  I  fancied." 

"  And  I,"  said  Harvey,  "  always  recall  those 
words  :  '  Let  not  the  waterflood  overflow  me,  neither 
let  the  deep  swallow  me  up.'  " 

"  I,"  said  Diana,  "  invariably  wonder  why  men  do 
not  find  some  means  of  economizing  this  tremendous 
force." 

*'  Well,"  said  Brooks,"  for  my  part  I  have  never 


4 
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ADRIFT. 


l!    I 


stood  in  this  spot  without  asking  myself  if  ever  any 
one  on  earth  suffered  such  torture  as  poor  Avery 
must  have  done,  clinging  to  that  old  stump  out  there 
on  the  verge  of  the  Fall.  He  knew  that  daring,  in- 
genuity, money,  were  all  employed  in  his  behalf; 
again  and  again  he  must  have  thrilled  with  hope  in 
some  new  expedient,  only  to  shudder  with  despair  at 
each  fresh  failure.  Great  heavens !  it's  inconceiva- 
ble,— the  horror  of  living  eighteen  hours  suspended 
over  that  seething  hell  of  waters,  his  life,  his  young 
bride,  his  place  on  the  happy  earth  forever  lost  to 
him ,  iio'ciiing  I^efore  him  but  that  awful  death  and 
the  dark,  dark  future  beyond.  And  yet  all  his 
misery  was  as  nothing  to  that  single  instant  when  he 
felt  his  helpless  hands  relax  and  was  torn  away  from 
his  refuge  with  a  scream  which  thousands  of  people 
echoed,  and  which  none  of  them  ever  forgot !" 

"  Do  not  speak,  do  not  think  of  those  things," 
said  Bella,  after  a  pause.  "  If  one  is  in  the  mood  for 
it,  Niagara  Falls  seems  only  one  great  grave.  What 
point  along  these  banks  has  not  been  the  scene  of 
some  suicide  or  fatal  accident  ?" 

"  That's  one  of  the  chief  charms  of  the  place,"  de- 
clared Mr.  Brooks,  as  they  turned  away  and  began 
to  walk  slowly  along  the  bank  towards  the  Goat 
Island  bridge.  "A  great  many  people  actually  come 
here  because  it  feeds  their  vanity.  Accidents  ?  TJicy 
are  not  going  to  slip  or  stumble  near  the  brink,  nor 
step  backwards  ofifa  bridge.  Suicide?  They  haven't 
embezzled  money,  their  health  is  good,  their  nerves 
unshattered.  These  worthies  will  tell  you  that  all 
the  tragedies  which  darken  the  records  of  Niagara 


ADRIFT.  gp 

might  have  been  avoided  by  the  exercise  of  common 
sense  such  as  they  possess." 

"  There  may  be  something  in  what  you  say,"  ad- 
mitted Bella.  "  I  myself  have  always  a  sense  of  my 
own  sagacity  when  I  am  here.  Death  is  so  near, 
around  me  on  every  hand,  and  yet  I  escape  it !" 

"  That's  exactly  my  idea !"  said  Mr.  Brooks.  He 
was  delighted  with  this  ready  appreciation,  and  pro- 
ceeded with  his  accustomed  fluency  to  explain  vari- 
ous other  workings  of  the  tourist's  mind. 

"  I  think  the  Falls  are  spoiled  for  any  one  who 
lives  as  near  as  Buffalo,"  remarked  Bella,  "  by  the 
necessity  of  taking  all  one's  visitors  here  for  a  day. 
I  average  about  six  in  a  summer.  They  never  say 
what  they  ought  to ;  I  never  heard  a  striking  or 
original  observation  from  any  person  on  his  first 
sight  of  the  Falls." 

"  Naturally ;  it  takes  time  to  develop  the  full  iin- 
pressivencss  of  the  scene,"  affirmed  Harvey,  who 
with  Diana  formed  the  van  of  the  little  procession. 
"  Doubtless  your  friends  were  grateful  enough  to 
you  after  they  got  home." 

"  I  don't  know,"  demurred  Bella,  her  mind  evi- 
dently dwelling  on  past  wrongs.  "  Now  this  very 
Goat  Island  bridge,"  she  said,  as  they  stepped  upon 
it ;  "  people  from  the  country  always,  always  want  to 
stand  here  and  throw  things  in  !" 

"  The  rural  mind  has  not  a  monopoly  of  that 
desire,"  said  Harvey,  with  his  frank  smile, "  for  I 
picked  this  up  for  that  very  purpose."  And  he 
flung  a  shingle  into  the  racing  water. 

They  watched  it  whirled  away  in  wide  curves,  now 

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QQ  ADRIFT. 

tossed  quite  out  of  the  water,  now  submerged,  now 
leaping  forward,  just  as  many  a  hopeless  wretch  has 
been  hurried  on  to  destruction.  V^hen  the  shingle 
was  out  of  sight  they  crossed  the  bridge  and  were 
on  Goat  Island. 

Through  the  sense  of  true  beauty  and  fitness  in 
the  family  who  so  Ijng  owned  Goat  Island,  it  has 
never  been  cleared  into  a  grove  or  park,  but  yet  re- 
tains the  sylvan  character  it  possessed  hundreds  of 
years  ago.  Great  elm  and  oak  trees  tower  overhead, 
their  branches  lovingly  intertwined  ;  here  and  there 
the  silver  shaft  of  a  birch  gleams  white  against  the 
greenery.  Cedar  and  hemlock  fling  cut  their  fresh 
cool  odor  upon  the  air  at  every  step;  indeed,  so  in- 
separable is  this  odor  from  associations  with  the  spot 
that  a  lover  of  the  Falls  never  fails  to  be  reminded 
of  Goat  Island  by  the  scent  of  a  sprig  of  hemlock. 
Beneath  the  trees  grows  an  undisturbed  tangle  of 
vines  and  bushes;  wild-flowers  are  as  plentiful  as 
they  were  when  the  place  was  an  untrodden  solitude ; 
soft,  thick  moss  covers  the  gnarled  roots  of  trees  and 
richly  borders  the  pathway. 

"  This  wood  probably  witnessed  numerous  love- 
scenes  two  centuries  ago,"  said  Mr.  Brooks,  senti- 
mentally.    "  Doubtless  many  an  Indian  youth 

*  Laid  his  crystal  bow  aside, 
And  his  silver  shining  quiver,' 

to  stroll  with  some  dusky  maid  adown  this  path. 

Here  they  vowed  their  simple  faith " 

**  You  are  mistaken,"  interrupted  Diana's  cold, 
calm  tones.    "  There  was  not  this  nice,  pretty  path 


ADRIFT. 


91 


then ;  the  whole  island  w^s  covered  with  an  impene- 
trable undergrowth.  Besides,  the  bridge  itself  is  of 
comparatively  recent  date,  and  your  young  people 
could  not  have  flown  here." 

Mr.  Brooks  did  not  appear  at  all  grateful  for  this 
information.  "I  believe  the  Indians  sometimes 
rowed  from  the  Canada  shore  over  to  the  foot  of 
the  island,  and  climbed  up  the  rocks.  My  lovers 
may  have  done  the  same,"  be  returned,  gayly 
enough ;  but  it  was  noticeable  that  he  thencefor- 
ward slackened  his  steps  and  gave  other  evidences 
of  a  distaste  for  Miss  Forrester's  society. 

There  existed  between  him  and  Bella  a  certain 
charming  freemasonry  happily  not  infrequent  among 
widely-read  people.  One  had  only  to  make  an  allu- 
sion to  any  subject  to  find  the  other  perfectly  con- 
versant with  it.  They  knew  the  song  or  story  of  all 
the  forests  in  romance,  and  as  they  rambled  on 
through  the  wood  they  peopled  it  with  the  shadowy 
shapes  of  Merlin  and  Rosalind,  of  Robin  Hood  and 
Oberon,  of  Dian  and  Adonis. 

They  found  this  manner  of  conversation  very 
pleasant,  and  refrained  from  overtaking  their  com- 
panions until  they  reached  the  little  platform  at  the 
brink  of  the  Fall.  Here  three  of  the  party  joined  in 
inveighing  against  the  initials  rudely  cut  with  pocket- 
knives  which  deface  almost  every  inch  of  the  railings 
and  benches,  and  in  declaring  that  these  inscriptions 
could  only  be  made  by  persons  equally  ignorant  of 
the  value  of  time  and  unable  to  appreciate  the  beau- 
ties of  Nature  about  them.  But  Jerome  Harvey  dis- 
sented from  this  sweeping  statement. 


\^\. 


92 


ADRIFT. 


"  I  remember  seeing  one  inscription  on  this  railing 
that  was  not  cut  idly  or  thoughtlessly,"  he  said.  "  It 
was  in  May,  1877.  It  had  been  carved  only  a  few 
days  before  I  saw  it,  for  the  letters  were  perfectly 
fresh ;  they  were  also  skilfully  formed.  The  words 
were,  ^  Ida  is  with  God.'  Of  course  I  shall  never 
know  whether  Ida  was  sweetheart,  wife,  or  daughter. 
The  very  mystery  of  it  impressed  me." 

"  It  was  a  touching  impulse,  to  leave  that  simple 
memorial  to  a  loved  one  amid  this  everlasting 
grandeur,"  said  Bella. 

They  walked  on,  pausing  every  now  and  then  to 
look  across  or  into  the  chasm  from  different  points 
of  view.  Once  Mr.  Brooks  'ook  a  few  perilous 
steps  down  the  bank,  to  cut  two  willow  switches 
for  the  ladies.  Bella  accepted  one,  and  thanked 
him  sweetly  for  it,  but  Diana  declined  hers,  on  the 
ground  that  it  was  against  the  rules  to  mutilate  the 
shrubbery. 

One  feels  the  sublimity  of  the  Horseshoe  Fall 
more  keenly  than  that  of  the  American.  It  is  less 
approachable,  less  comprehensible ;  no  island  di- 
vides its  centre,  so  that  one  can  stand  as  it  were  in 
the  very  heart  of  it ;  no  brave  little  steamer  dares  to 
draw  n':iar  its  foot,  nor  venture  into  that  vast  circu- 
lar basin  whose  unsearchable  depths  imagination 
cannot  picture  nor  plummet  sound.  There  is  no 
effect  of  veil-like  lightness  in  the  falling  water  here ; 
a  deep  unbroken  mass  of  lucent  green,  it  sweeps 
over  the  majestic  curve  with  a  weight  which  seems 
as  if  it  would  crush  the  very  rocks  to  powder.  A 
rainbow  answers  the  summons  of  the  sun  and  rises 


ADRIFT. 

from  the  drifting  spray,  the  one  tender,  evanescent 
thing  amid  the  awful  unchanging  magnificence. 

They  gazed  a  long  time  upon  this  scene,  then 
slowly  sauntered  on,  and  presently  crossed  the  three 
bridges  that  connect  the  picturesque  Sister  Islands. 
When  they  reached  the  third  of  these  little  islands, 
Bella  sat  down  upon  a  bench,  saying  she  was  tired ; 
she  took  off  her  large  brown  straw  hat,  and  the 
breeze  from  the  rushing  water  fanned  her  rosy 
cheeks  and  lifted  the  light  curls  on  her  forehead. 
Fatigue  being  one  of  the  weaknesses  to  which 
Diana,  fragile  though  she  looked,  was  nobly  su- 
perior, she  did  not  care  to  linger  long,  but  returned 
with  Harvey  to  Goat  Island. 

Bella  and  Stephen,  thus  left  alone,  were  silent  a 
little  space.  They  had  not  chosen  a  very  lovely 
spot  for  their  {^vt  moments'  repose.  The  Third 
Sister  Island  is  but  little  more  than  a  mass  of 
gray  stone,  and  very  scant  vegetation  has  taken  root 
there.  The  water  a  few  rods  up-stream  is  so  much 
above  the  level  of  the  island  that  it  seems  every 
moment  as  if  in  its  headlong  descent  it  would  en- 
gulf the  whole  place  and  tear  it  away  from  its  foun- 
dations. 

"  A  river  is  beyond  all  question  the  most  beautiful 
body  of  water,"  Stephen  presently  remarked.  "What 
is  a  brook,  with  its  idiotic  chatter  ?  A  pond  stag- 
nates; a  lake,  the  ocean,  get  all  and  give  nothing. 
But  a  river's  calm  progress  blesses  and  purifies  every 
mile  it  traverses." 

Bella  not  challenging  these  assertions,  the  young 
man  went  on : 


r 


m 


94 


ADRIFT. 


"  And  a  river  is  a  perfect  simile  of  human  life,— 
any  river,  but  Niagara  especially.  The  first  few  miles 
are  like  the  peace  of  childhood ;  the  rapids  represent 
the  one  great  experience  of  a  life,  whether  passion, 
crime,  or  noble  endeavor;  the  cataract  is  the  crisis 
of  that  experience ;  the  lower  reach  of  the  river  is 
the  succeeding  existence,  for  a  while  tumultuous 
with  regret  or  despair,  but  soon  subsiding  into  the 
quiet  of  middle  life,  then  sinking  into  the  dull  mo- 
notony of  old  age.  And  as  the  river  ends  in  Lake 
Ontario,  so  life  ends  in  death." 

"  It  is  easy  to  pick  flaws  in  your  metaphor,"  said 
Bella,  smiling,  "  the  most  obvious  being  that  every 
life  has  more  than  one  such  exciting  experience  as 
you  describe." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen ;  "  but  there  i"^  always  one 
season  supreme  above  all  others,  one  period  when 
we  recognize  that  we  enjoy,  suffer,  achieve,  more 
than  we  have  ever  done  or  can  ever  do  again.  In 
that  season  we  are  in  the  rapids  of  our  lives." 

Bella  mused  a  moment.  The  time  when  she  had 
keenly  enjoyed  and  sharply  suffered  seemed  very  far 
behind  her.     Presently  she  said, — 

"  Then  I  must  have  passed  through  the  rapids 
long  ago,  I  think." 

"  Not  so,"  said  Stephen,  not  altogether  lightly. 
"You  are,  I  should  judge,  twenty-six  or  seven  years 
old ;  do  you  suppose  you  have  yet  lived  your  life 
out?  There  are,  if  I  recollect  aright,  one  or  two 
shoals  in  Niagara  River,  up  at  Buffalo  and  Fort  Erie, 
where  the  water  glides  along  in  shallow  ripples ;  you 
may  have   known  some   trivial  experiences  corre- 


i%  'm 


if! 


ADRIFT,  ft* 

spending  to  them;  but  I  do  not  believe  you  have 
gone  through  the  rapids." 

Bella  gazed  up  at  him,  reflecting  that  he  did  not 
look  much  of  an  oracle  in  his  blue  summer  suit, 
with  his  straw  hat  pushed  back  from  his  dark  and 
somewhat  heavy  face.  Her  perception  of  his  im- 
pertinence was  dominated  by  an  irresistible  mis- 
giving. 

"There  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind,  I  repeat,"  he 
continued,  gravely, "  that  you,  Mrs.  Forrester,  will 
some  time  know  an  intensity  of  life  surpassing  any- 
thing you  can  dream  of  now.  And — who  can  tell? — 
it  may  be  this  very  summer,  perhaps." 

This  time  the  impertinence  was  not  to  be  ignored, 
and  the  lady  resented  it  by  rising  and  flinging  the 
little  willow  switch  as  far  from  her  as  she  could.  It 
fell  just  short  of  the  hurrying  water,  and  lodged  on 
a  dripping,  wave- worn  rock. 

"  I  meant  to  keep  it  as  a  souvenir,"  she  said. 
"But  I  will  keep  nothing  that  can  remind  me  of 
your  words."  Even  as  she  spoke  she  knew  she 
could  never  forget  them. 

Without  replying,  the  young  man  stepped  cau- 
tiously over  one  or  two  intervening  stones  and  re- 
covered the  switch. 

"  Twice  I  have  run  some  risk  in  getting  this  for 
you,"  he  said,  extending  it  towards  her.  The  risk 
in  either  case  had  been  trifling,  but  Mr.  Brooks  was 
not  a  man  to  underrate  his  own  exploits.  "  I  am 
sorry  I  offended  you,"  he  said,  contritely.  "  Won't 
you  accept  this  as  a  peace-offering  ?" 

She  hesitated.     Both  of  them  felt  dimly  that  a 


ca 


»;■;-. 


<J 


t:; : 


96 


ADRIFT. 


great  deal  depended  upon  her  action.  At  last  she 
took  the  switch. 

"  I  forgive  you  freely,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh. 
They  were  very  merry  as  they  crossed  Goat  Island 
by  the  short  cut  through  the  woods.  They  rejoined 
the  others  at  the  point  where  Philippe  was  waiting 
with  the  carriage,  and  all  through  the  homeward 
drive  Bella  continued  in  the  gayest  humor. 

But  she  herself  more  than  once  felt  her  eyes  grow 
hot  with  tears, — 


**  Tears  for  the  unknown  years 
And  a  sorrow  that  was  to  be." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

'  Few  words  they  said ;  the  balmy  odorous  wind 
Wandered  about,  some  resting-place  to  find ; 
The  young  leaves  rustled  'neath  its  gentle  breath, 
And  here  and  there  some  blossom  burst  his  sheath, 
Adding  unnoticed  fragrance  to  the  night ; 
But  as  they  pondered,  a  new  golden  light 
Streamed  over  the  green  garden." 

Morris. 


Four  is  an  impossible  number  for  conversation; 
even  with  three  the  opportunity  to  speak  recurs  too 
seldom ;  the  ideal  interchange  of  thought  is  in  the 
form  of  a  dialogue.  Therefore,  though  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Forrester  had  at  first  received  together  the 
daily  visits  of  the  young  men,  it  grew  to  be  more 


ADRIFT. 


97 


and  more  oilen  the  case  that  one  pair  communed 
together  in  the  house,  while  the  other  sought  the 
garden  or  verand^. 

One  afternoon  in  the  latter  part  of  June  Miss  For- 
rester was  seated  in  her  little  parlor.  She  wore  a 
simple  gray  dress,  exquisitely  fitting,  and  relieved  at 
throat  and  wrists  by  a  i^arrow  line  of  linen  scarcely 
whiter  than  her  slender  nrck  and  little  frail  hands, 
which  latter  were  veiled  by  a  frost-like  fabric,  for 
she  was  engaged  in  crocheting  lace.  Her  com- 
panion, Mr.  Jerome  Harvey,  informed  her  that  such 
labor  was  worse  than  useless,  and  explained  fully 
how  the  lace  could  be  made  cheaper,  stronger,  and 
prettier,  by  machinery ;  but  she  continued  to  weave 
her  shining  needle  in  and  out  as  if  he  had  not 
spoken. 

The  room  was  deliciously  cool  and  quiet.  Through 
the  open  windows  the  mildest  of  zephyrs  floated, 
lightly  freighted  with  the  fresh  odors  of  the  yet 
young  foliage  and  flowers.  Three  or  four  great 
pink  roses — not  the  products  of  Diana's  garden, 
but  procured  by  Mr.  Harvey  at  some  trouble  and 
expense — stood  in  a  tall  crystal  vase,  their  tender 
bloom  outlined  against  an  olive  curtain. 

There  are  in  every  one's  acquaintance  certain 
women  with  whom  one  never  associates  the  idea  of 
lovers,  and  whose  engagement  or  marriage  strikes 
one  almost  as  a  miracle  might.  They  are  usually 
of  irreproachable  goodness,  endowed  with  placid 
tempers,  and  not  destitute  of  beauty ;  but  they  lack 
the  charm  only  less  potent  than  beauty  to  attract  a 
man,  and  a  thousand  times  stronger  to  retain  his 
"^      9  9 


'; 


i". 


m 

ll 

1 

1 

98 


ADRIFT. 


affection, — animation.  Abroad,  among  gentlemen 
of  leisure,  a  girl  or  even  a  matron  may  be  silent  if 
she  chooses;  but  in  America  the  men  toil  all  day 
long,  and  it  were  selfish  to  expect  them  to  assume 
during  the  holiday  hours  the  added  labor  of  enter- 
taining. A  woman  must  be  prepared  not  merely  to 
follow,  but  to  lead  conversation.  Possessing  this 
accomplishment,  no  woman  ever  remained  unsought; 
lacking  it,  it  is  almost  a  foregone  conclusion  that  no 
man  will  ever  entreat  so  dull  and  lifeless  a  creature 
to  hang  the  dead  weight  of  her  society  upon  his 
hands  till  death  do  them  part. 

Diana  Forrester  was  one  of  these  women.  She 
was  not  a  fool,  but  she  very  rarely  offered  any  verbal 
proof  to  the  contrary.  On  this  occasion,  however, 
she  made  an  unusual  effort  to  sustain  her  part  in  the 
conversation. 

"  It  seems  a  long  time,"  observed  Harvey,  "  since 
I  first  entered  this  room,  everything  is  so  changed." 

"  Not  everything,"  returned  Diana :  "  I  am  not 
changed." 

"  True,"  said  Harvey.  She  was  less  discourteous 
than  at  their  first  interview ;  but  she  was  as  cold, 
impenetrable,  as  much  a  stranger  as  then. 

"  Since  my  childhood  I  have  changed  in  nothing 
but  physical  size,"  declared  Diana.  "  I  formed  de- 
cided opinions  on  all  subjects  very  early,  and  have 
never  been  tempted  to  alter  them." 

"  Surely  you  do  not  think  that  anything  to  be 
proud  of,"  said  Jerome.  "  Such  a  state  of  mind  pre- 
cludes all  development,  all  improvement" 

"  I  do  not  defend  this  idiosyncrasy,  any  more  than 


A  j^  RIFT. 


99 

"One 


I  defend  the  color  of  my  hair,"  said  Diana, 
belongs  to  me  as  much  as  the  other." 

Jerome  was  silent  a  moment,  aghast  at  this  glimpse 
of  a  dark  and  stolia  mental  condition.  "  But  per- 
haps," he  remarked,  hopefully,  "all  these  opinions 
you  formed  in  your  childhood  were  so  invariably 
wise  that  no  one  could  wish  them  changed." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Diana.  "I  have  no  objection 
to  airing  one  or  two  of  my  unchangeable  sentiments, 
and  you  can  judge  whether  they  are  right  ones. 
The  first  thing  I  can  remember  making  up  my  mind 
about  is  the  character  of  Mr.  Marcy  Forrester.  He 
came  to  see  me,  when  I  was  about  four  years 
old,  at  the  school  where  he  had  me  educated.  He 
wished  to  kiss  me,  but  I  refused,  crying  out,  '  You 
are  a  bad  man  !  I  hate  you  !  God  hates  you  !'  And 
from  that  day  to  this  nothing  has  modified  the  feel- 
ing." 

"  You  are  severe,"  said  Jerome,  willing  to  make 
allowances  for  his  putative  father. 

"  I  do  think  him  a  bad  man,  and  I  do  hate  him," 
said  Diana,  with  conviction.  "  Ask  him,  he  will 
confess  that  he  never  had  a  noble,  unselfish  impulse 
in  his  life." 

"He  says  he  has  helped  John  Forrester  in  his 
business,''  ventured  Jerome. 

"  Yes ;  and  do  you  know  why  ?  Because  he  likes 
John's  wife,  Bella.  She  is  gay  and  sprightly,  and 
brightens  life  for  him  as  I  cannot  do,  and  would  not 
if  I  could.  He  is  as  selfish  in  that  as  in  everything 
else." 

Jerome,  deeming  it  improper,  in  the  uncertainty 


■1 


p*..  r 


i!;!f 


'.^;i 


'M. 


c.  1 


lOO 


ADRIFT. 


of  his  relations  with  Marcy  Forrester,  to  discuss  that 
gentleman's  character,  requested  the  young  lady  to 
mention  some  other  fixed  decree  of  her  mind. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  never  marry.  I  decided 
upon  that  when  I  was  ten  years  old." 

"  Isn't  that  resolution  the  common  property  of  all 
young  girls?"  asked  Jerome,  smiling.  "And  does 
it  not  quickly  falter  when  the  Fairy  Prince  comes  to 
combat  it?" 

"  It's  impossible  for  me  to  imagine  any  manner  of 
Fairy  Prince  who  could  shake  my  determination," 
said  Diana. 

"  I,  too,  made  such  a  resolution  man)^  years  ago," 
said  Jerome,  '*  and  it  is  only  of  late  I  have  thought 
it  even  possible  to  relinquish  it."  This  speech  seemed 
to  him  most  important. 

But  Diana  heard  him  quite  unmoved.  "  It  was 
not  without  giving  much  time  and  thought  to  the 
subject  that  I  came  to  a  decision,"  she  said.  "  If  I 
did  not  adhere  to  it  I  should  feel  that  all  that  time 
and  thought  had  been  wasted." 

Some  one  says  that  "  talking  of  love  is  making 
love,"  and  discourse  on  this  theme  between  a  young 
man  and  woman  is  usually  fraught  with  a  pleasant 
consciousness.  Jerome  was  aware  of  this  conscious- 
ness ;  but  there  was  no  trace  of  dubiety  or  embar- 
rassment in  Diana's  manner. 

"  Do  you  think,"  the  young  man  asked,  rather 
gravely,  "  that  when  the  Prince  comes  you  will  not 
care  for  him,  or,  caring,  you  can  still  resist  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  one  to  borrow  trouble,"  said  Diana, 
"and  so  I  have  never  speculated  upon  those  ques- 


ADRIFT. 


lOI 


tions.     But  let  us  say  no  more  on  this  disagreeable 
topic.     Don't  you  want  to  see  my  herbarium  ?" 

Meanwhile,  another  conversation  was  in  progress 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden.  Mrs.  Forrester  and  Mr. 
Brooks  sat  in  low  rustic  chairs  in  the  shade  of  the 
pines,  through  whose  branches  a  light  fragrant  breeze 
rose  up  from  the  river  so  far  below.  Bella  wore  a 
dress  of  creamy  wool,  her  sole  ornament  a  string  of 
clouded  amber  beads  close  around  her  throat.  She 
wore  ^^his  necklace  in  season  and  out  of  season, 
alleging  it  to  be  most  efficacious  in  warding  off* 
bronchial  affections ;  she  would,  however,  probably 
have  resorted  to  some  other  preventive  had  the  pure 
pale  yellow  been  less  eminently  becoming.  Any 
lack  of  color  in  her  dress  was  fully  supplied  by  the 
warm  white  and  pink  of  her  complexion  and  the 
varying  brown  and  auburn  shades  of  her  hair. 

"  And  so  you  are  a  writer !"  she  said,  with  interest. 
"  Did  you  say  an  author,  or  only  a  writer  ?" 

"  Only  a  writer,"  the  young  man  replied.  "  My 
friend  says  I  have  not  insight  or  energy  enough  to 
be  a  novelist." 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought  you  would  be  justified 
in  resenting  Mr.  Harvey's  manner  to  you,"  remarked 
Bella. 

"  Oh,  Jerome  is  better  than  I,  and  of  course  he 
knows  it,  and  it  makes  him  a  little  arrogant.  It's  the 
arrogance  of  conscious  virtue,"  explained  Stephen, 
amiably.  "  Anyway,  book-writing  is  very  slow  com- 
pared to  journalism.  There's  nothing  pleasanter 
than  to  be  able  to  say  a  short,  sharp  word  upon  any 
question  of  the  hour.     And  if  any  man  offends  one, 


il  iitri, 


^G   il 


t  ■^^ 


m 


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I 


ft; 


%.    »1 


i 


\-\, 


102 


ADRIFT. 


it's  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  hold  him  up  to 
the  laughter  or  the  scorn  of  a  whole  city  with  some 
epigram  that  shall  sting  like  a  blow." 

"  But  th<*  exercise  of  such  a  power  must  react,  and 
hurt  the  man  who  wields  it  more  than  his  intended 
victim,"  said  Bella,  her  gray-blue  eyes  very  serious. 

'*  It  is  rather  like  hitting  a  cripple,  I  admit,"  said 
Stephen,  *'  and  I'm  always  ashamed  of  it  afterwards. 
But  all  human  effort,  however  beneficial  to  man- 
kind, has  a  deteriorating  effect  upon  the  individual 
who  makes  it.  A  physician,  whose  duty  it  is  to 
alleviate  suffering,  is  soon  hardened  to  the  sight  of 
it,  without  pity,  without  sympathy.  A  minister, 
always  preaching  to  sinners,  finally  comes  to  be- 
lieve in  his  own  marvellous  superiority,  and  in  con- 
sequence is  a  detestable  prig.  A  teacher,  ever  in 
contact  with  inferior  minds,  forgets  the  necessity  of 
cultivating  his  own,  and  becomes  a  mere  machine  1" 

"  Hovv  much  better,  then,  to  make  no  more  exer- 
tion than  an  oyster!"  was  Bella's  grave  reply  to 
these  astounding  propositions.  "  Your  writing,  Mr. 
Brooks,  of  course  brings  you  any  amount  of  delight- 
ful attention  ?" 

*'  Well,  no,"  confessed  Stephen.  **  You  see,  it's 
only  intelligent  people — always  a  small  class — who 
know  what  is  doing  in  literature.  If  the  greatest 
author  alive  were  to  walk  down  Broadway  not  half 
as  many  heads  would  turn  to  look  at  him  as  at  a 
pedestrian  or  a  slugger." 

"  That's  discouraging,"  said  Bella.  "  But  couldn't 
you  be — well,  a  sort  of  literary  slugger?" 

Stephen   laughed.     "I'll   think   of   it,"   he   said. 


ADRIFT. 


103 


"The  best  thing  about  literature  as  a  profession  is 
this :  everything  is  grist  to  the  mill.  As  Autolycus 
says,  '  Every  church,  every  lane,  yields  an  honest 
man  work.'  Some  trifling  experience  may  lie  hidden 
in  a  man's  mind  for  years,  and  at  last  prove  to  be 
the  kernel  of  his  greatest  romance.  Now,  this 
morning  I  wrote  up  our  walk  of  the  other  day,  and 
it's  not  half  bad." 

"  And  did  you  all  the  time  intend  to  do  that  ?  Did 
you  listen  to  every  speech  and  weigh  its  market 
value?  Have  you  held  Miss  Forrester  and  myself 
up  to  the  laughter  or  the  scorn  of  a  whole  city  ?" 
demanded  Bella,  looking  as  darkly  suspicious  as  she 
could. 

"  No,  no  I  There  is  not  a  word  about  you  in  it," 
said  the  young  man.  "  Here  is  the  manuscript ;  I 
am  going  to  mail  it  before  I  go  back  to  Mr.  For- 
rester's." 

Whereupon  Bella  very  naturally  implored  him  to 
read  it,  and,  nothing  loath,  he  proceeded  to  do  so. 


"in  articulo  mortis." 


"  Niagara  Falls !" 

I  start  as  if  I  had  been  shot  when  the  brakeman 
shouts  these  two  words  in  at  the  door  of  the  car. 
What  special  significance  have  they  for  me  ?  I  have 
heard  them  unmoved  a  thousand  times.  It  must  be 
that  I  was  dozing  in  my  seat  when  he  spoke, — yes, 
that  was  it,  for  you  know  I  have  not  been  able  to 
get  much  sleep  lately. 

Let  me  find  out  what  time  the  train  starts  for 


l\ 


IT' 


I04 


ADRIFT. 


home.  I  must  be  particular  about  this, — very  par- 
ticular.    Mary  might  be  anxious  if  I  missed  it. 

I  stroll  slowl)'  ^own  the  street,  stopping  once  to 
buy  a  cigar,  and  again  to  look  at  some  fancy  articles 
for  Mary.  But  it  is  early  in  the  day  to  cumber  my 
hands  with  parcels,  and  I  tell  the  shop-girl  I  will 
make  a  purchase  when  I  come  back  this  way  later 
in  the  afternoon. 

"  I  shall  be  sure  to  come  back  this  way,"  I  prom- 
ise her,  smiling. 

Once  more  I  pause,  this  time  to  drink  from  the 
fountain  in  Prospect  Park.  The  water  is  rather 
warm,  and  I  mentally  resolve  not  to  drink  again  till 
I  can  pour  some  of  the  sparkling,  icy  water  out  of 
the  silver  pitcher  in  my  own  dining-room  at  home. 

Strange,  isn't  it,  that  I  should  delay  and  trifle  so  ? 
For  we^ks  I  have  had  an  irresistible  desire  to  make 
this  little  trip, — an  ordinary  little  pleasure  trip,  you 
know,  such  as  I  make  a  dozen  times  in  a  summer, — 
and  yet  now  that  I  am  here  I  cannot — shall  I  say 
dare  not  ? — proceed  directly  to  the  great  fall  itself. 
At  last,  with  a  violent  effort  of  will,  I  force  my  steps 
lo  the  platform  which  overlooks  the  abyss. 

People  are  leaning  upon  the  stone  parapet,  laugh- 
ing and  chatting.  It  makes  me  angry  to  see  such 
foolhardy  carelessness.  What  a  horrible  thing  it 
would  be  to  fall  over — accidentally ! 

Never  has  the  place  looked  so  grand  to  me  as  to- 
day. How  beautiful  the  spray  is, — half  pearl,  half 
diamond-dust !  From  its  midst  a  magnificent  rain- 
bow rises.  I  bend  over  the  parapet  and  gaze  down 
at   the  turquoise   water   nearly  two    hundred    feet 


ADRIFT. 


105 


below  ;  its  foam-flecked  surface  appears  very  still,  as 
if  it  were  quiet  and  exhausted  after  its  tremendous 
plunge. 

Men,  thus  gazing  down,  have  been  tempted  to 
leap  over,  to  essay  for  a  few  seconds  the  sensations 
of  a  bird  in  swift  wild  rush  through  the  cool  air. 
But  the  rocks  rearing  their  black  and  jagged  heads 
from  the  water  below 

I  shrink  back,  trembling  and  dizry.  Two  or  three 
girls  smile  at  my  evident  cowardice. 

I  wander  aimlessly  away.  Perhaps  I  had  better 
go  back  to  the  depot  and  wait  there  till  train-time. 
What !  and  not  see  Goat  Island  ?  That  would  be 
silly  indeed.     Of  course  I  will  go  over  there. 

Once  I  pass  a  defective  place  in  the  sidewalk,  and 
very  cautiously  I  make  my  way  over  it.  I  should 
not  like  a  broken  leg  or  a  sprained  ankle. 

Queer,  isn't  it,  that  a  quiet  business-man  like  me 
should  have  such  a  freak  as  this !  The  idea  of  my 
coming  here  all  alone  without  Mary  or  the  children ! 

But  oddly  enough,  I  must  get  over  the  idea  that 
one  of  the  children  is  with  me, — little  Ray,  of  whom 
I  have  hardly  thought  once  a  month  these  many 
years.  To-day  it  seems  as  if  he  were  running  along 
beside  me  as  ne  used  to  do,  with  his  little  straw  hat 
and  white  embroidered  dress,  and  the  yellow  hair 
curling  about  his  bright  baby  face.  Twenty  years 
ago  we  laid  him  in  his  coffin,  pale  and  still.  Mary 
has  never  got  over  it  altogether. 

I  stand  a  long  time  on  Goat  Island  bridge.  It's  a 
wonderful  piece  of  engineering.  There  were  diffi- 
culties in  the  way  of  its  construction  which  required 


^t 


h\ 


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''Si 


t::. 


io6 


ADRIFT. 


almost  superhuman  ingenuity  to  surmount.  I  ad- 
mire the  man,  whoever  he  was,  whose  brains  and 
energy  made  the  bridge  possible. 

I  have  not  achieved  any  great  thing  like  that.  At 
middle  age  my  chief  claim  to  distinction  is  that  I 
possess  the  most  remarkable  head  on  record, — a 
head  that  never  for  a  moment  stops  aching. 

After  one  looks  at  the  rapids  awhile  they  remind 
one  of  the  German  water-nixies ;  mysterious  creat- 
ures seem  to  be  tossing  wild  white  arms  out  of  the 
water  in  strenuous  endeavor  to  snatch  me  into  their 
fatal  embrace.  I  shudder  at  the  fancy  and  walk  for- 
ward to  the  island. 

On  either  side  of  the  path  moss  and  ferns  are 
growing.  Overhead  the  branches  greenly  interlace. 
There  is  a  delicious  balsamic  odor  of  fir  and  cedar 
in  the  air.  Here  perhaps  Indian  lovers  strayed  long 
ago.  It  would  be  rather  pleasant  to  be  an  Indian,  I 
think, — no  letters,  no  figures,  no  insomnia. 

It  strikes  me  as  very  curious  that  the  persons  I 
meet  do  not  notice  me,  do  not  look  at  me  as  if  I 
were  in  any  way  a  marked  man.  Well,  why  should 
they  ?  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  mention  any  rea- 
son why  they  should. 

Again  and  again  recurs  the  fancy  that  little  Ray 
is  dancing  along  beside  me.  When  I  reach  home 
to-night  I  must  have  Mary  get  the  curl  she  cut 
from  his  head  as  he  lay  dead.  I  want  to  see  if  I 
have  kept  the  color  right  in  my  memory  all  these 
years. 

Why  can  one  never  look  upon  the  superb  curve 
of  the   Horseshoe  Fall  without  remembering  that 


ADRIFT. 


107 


bodies  swept  over  it  are  seldom  recovered?  How 
many  things  that  once  were  men  lie  pressed  into 
those  dark  rocky  caverns  by  the  enormous  weight 
of  water,  buried  more  surely  than  in  any  grave !  A 
grewsome  thought  I  There  is  a  taint  of  death  about 
the  place. 

Again  I  pass  on,  cross  quickly  the  little  fairy 
bridges,  apparently  so  slight,  in  reality  so  strong, 
and  find  myself  upon  the  Third  Sister  Island.  It 
is  only  a  mass  of  rocks,  and  the  rapids  above  it  are 
so  terrific  it  seems  every  instant  as  if  the  spot  must 
be  engulfed.  Do  I  hear  little  Ray  calling  me  ?  or  is 
it  only  the  furious  water  howling, — 

"  Come,  come,  I  will  whirl  your  body  round  and 
about,  even  as  your  brain  is  whirling !" 

Why  have  I  taken  off  my  coat  and  hat  and  laid 
them  on  the  bench?  Is  it  that  I  am  too  warm? 
No,  for  the  wind  blows  over  the  mad  white  water 
upon  me  and  I  shiver. 

I  put  them  on  again  and  return  to  the  second 
little  bridge.  There,  perhaps,  as  nowhere  else,  the 
supreme  majesty  and  terror  of  the  river  is  concen- 
trated. There,  with  a  roar  as  of  thunder,  conflict- 
ing currents  do  battle  among  themselves  in  a  splen- 
did glory  of  emerald  and  snow  and  silver. 

One  single  leap  a  few  moments'  flinging  from 
wave  to  wave,  from  rock  to  rock,  the  brief,  bird- 
like flight  through  space,  then  forever  rest,  rest, 
unbroken  rest. 

The  water  turns  to  blood  and  then  to  fire  before 
my  eyes.     A  hand  is  laid  on  my  arm. 

"  Sir,  will  you  please  tell  me  the  time  ?"  a  lady 


:-^'. 


i''-^r 


I'f'*'" 


•Jii; 


H 


m. 


:..^    fly 


% 


io8 


ADRIFT. 


asks.  She  has  a  pale,  sweet,  careworn  face,  some- 
thing like  Mary's, — dear  Mary ! 

I  tell  her  the  time,  and  cross  the  remaining  bridge 
to  Goat  Island  once  more.  Somehow  I  feel  safer 
here, — nearer  home,  I  si'opose. 

I  take  the  short  cut,  rambling  idly  along  beneath 
the  noble  trees.     How  true  are  those  lines : 

**  Come  ye  into  the  summer  woods, — 
There  entereth  no  annoy." 

Oh,  the  blessed  peace  and  calm  of  this  place! 
My  mind  has  been  a  little  confused  to-day;  but 
here  I  feel  serene  again. 

I  dread,  though  absurdly  enough,  to  recross  the 
long  bridge;  I  would  ask  some  one  to  hold  my 
hand  as  I  walk  over,  only  I  should  be  considered 
insane. 

I  am  nearly  over  to  the  mainland  now;  almost 
out  of  danger.  Danger?  What  danger  have  I 
been  in  to-day? 

In  ten  minutes  I  shall  be  in  the  train,  going  home 
to  Mary  and  the  children. 

Good  God!  what  is  that  in  the  water?  The  yel- 
low curls— the  child — little  Ray  has  fallen  in  1 

"  My  boy,  my  boy !  I'll  save  you  1" 

\^From  a  Buffalo  paper. '\ 

The  body  of  the  unfortunate  gentleman  who  com- 
mitted suicide  at  the  Falls  a  week  ago  to-day,  while 
suffering  from  a  complication  of  nervous  disorders, 
was  this  morning  recovered  at  Lewiston. 

When  the  grave  low  tones  of  the  reader  ceased 


M 


# 


ADRIFT. 


109 


he  was  gratified  to  see  that  tears  were  in  Bella's 
eyes.  She  assured  him  that  he  might  very  well  be 
a  novelist,  and  in  fact  praised  the  little  sketch  so 
warmly  that  Stephen  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
to  show  her  another  of  his  productions. 

"  This  one  is  in  print,  so  you  can  read  it  for  your- 
self," he  said,  handing  her  a  slip  of  paper  from  his 
pocket-book.     She  took  it,  and  read : 


BECALMED. 

As  in  the  scorching  flame  of  tropic  heat, — 
The  sun  a  jewel  in  the  turquoise  sky, 
Whose  rays,  like  blowi,  unceasingly  do  beat 
The  conquered  sullen  sea, — a  ship  doth  lie 
Becalmed  and  helpless,  while  her  drooping  sails 
Hang  gray  and  heavy  on  the  breathless  air : 
So  is  my  life  bereft  of  all  the  gales 
That  onward  sweep  mankind  to  do  and  dare. 
My  sluggish  days  know  not  the  rushing  tide 
Of  work,  nor  biting  breeze  of  adverse  fate, 
Nor  gusts  of  high  ambition,  anger,  pride, 
Nor  joy's  soft  zephyrs,  nor  wild  winds  of  hate. 
No  passion's  tempest  shakes  me  like  a  leaf, 
Nor  do  I  bow  beneath  the  storm  of  grief. 

"  Why,  you  are  a  poet !"  she  cried,  in  joyful  sur- 
prise. She  did  not  return  the  paper,  but  slipped  it 
between  the  buttons  of  her  gown. 

"  A  mere  versifier,"  said  Stephen,  modestly.  "  A 
man  is  mad  to  write  sonnets  while  Rossetti's  yet 
ring  in  our  ears.  This  is  in  the  Shakespearian  form, 
the  simplest  of  all." 

"  It's  beautiful, — imagery,  structure,  everything !" 

declared  Bella.     "But,  pardon  me,  is  the  hopeless 

state  of  mind  it  describes  really  yours  ?" 

10 


.4-sf;- 


'\x 


'til 


Ml 


no 


ADRIFT. 


"  Not  now,"  said  Stephen.  "  It  was  when  I  wrote 
the  poem." 

"Oh I    And  that  was— when ?" 

He  paused,  and  before  he  spoke  his  face  flushed 
darkly. 

"  The  day  before  I  met  you !" 


CHAPTER    X. 

"  By  a  divine  instinct,  men's  minds  mistrust 
Ensuing  danger ;  as,  by  proof,  we  see 
The  waters  swell  before  a  boisterous  storm." 

Shakespeare. 


The  serenity  which  had  made  the  first  days  of 
Jerome  Harvey's  visit  to  Marcy  Forrester  so  agree- 
able was  of  short  duration.  It  passed  away,  and  the 
young  man  found  himself  more  anxious  and  dis- 
quieted than  ever.  He  chafed  somewhat  against  his 
enforced  idleness,  but  this  was  a  small  factor  among 
the  causes  of  his  discontent.  He  was  indignant  at 
his  host  for  keeping  him  in  suspense,  and  angry  at 
himself  for  submitting  to  it ;  and  yet  he  saw  no 
other  course  open  to  him.  If  he  gave  up  the  in- 
quiry and  returned  to  New  York,  it  was  not  probable 
that  Marcy  Forrester  would  ever  again  feel  the  slight 
approach  to  a  communicative  mood  which  had 
prompted  him  to  send  the  telegram.  No;  Harvey 
knew  that  he  must  be  kept  dancing  attendance  on 


ADRIFT. 


Ill 


the  old  man's  whims  for  an  indefinite  period,  and  all 
he  could  do  was  to  protect  to  Brooks  against  the 
injustice  of  the  proceeding. 

Marcy  Forrester,  on  the  other  hand,  had  not  for 
years  known  so  much  pleasure  as  his  power  over 
Harvey  afforded  him.  It  was  delightful  to  play  the 
tantalizing  cat  to  Jerome  Harvey's  tortured  mouse ; 
to  drop  an  occasional  hint  of  a  flourishing  family  tree 
and  a  wealth  of  relatives  in  he  background,  or  to 
flush  the  young  man's  cheek  by  some  chance  allu- 
sion to  an  ignominious  extraction.  His  tired  and 
flagging  pulses  received  a  new  stimulus  ;  he  felt  him- 
self no  longer  impotent,  since  he  could  inflict  pain. 
All  this  had  necessarily  an  exciting  effect  upon  hii 
nerves ;  but  it  was  easy  to  ignore  the  dangers  of  an 
excitement  so  pleasurable  in  its  quality.  He  was 
willing  to  risk  something  for  the  enjoyment  of  watch- 
ing his  victim's  writhings. 

It  was  soon  patent  to  all  observers  that  the  victim 
had  writhed  himself  into  feeling  a  dire  need  of  femi- 
nine sympathy,  which  he  accordingly  sought  from 
Diana  Forrester.  But  as  that  young  woman  listened 
to  all  complaints  in  a  blank  silence,  and  at  their  close 
calmly  advised  Harvey  to  abandon  the  quest,  an  in- 
terview with  her  produced  anything  but  a  soothing 
effect.  He  thought  her  unresponsive,  disagreeable ; 
he  was  constantly  thwarted  in  his  efforts  to  stir  her 
to  some  show  of  interest  in  his  perplexities ;  but  out 
of  this  failure  grew  at  last  the  unconscious  deter- 
mination to  rouse  some  feeling  in  her.  He  was  pos- 
sessed by  an  imperative  need  to  bring  the  tears  to 
her  eyes,  the  color  to  her  clear  pale  cheek,  and  in 


''1 1 


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jiH 


112 


ADRIFT, 


this  endeavor  he  felt  himself  grow  more  ardent  and 
Pygmalion-like  every  day. 

It  was  entirely  with  Stephen  Brooks's  concurrence 
that  Harvey  monopolized  Miss  Forrester's  time;  it 
was,  moreover,  a  matter  of  daily  self-congratulation 
with  him  that  the  fourth  member  of  the  quartette 
was  a  companion  so  fully  after  his  own  mind.  Mrs. 
Forrester  and  Mr.  Brooks  had  many  things  in  com- 
mon besides  their  literary  tastes.  They  had  an  in- 
stinctive sympathy  which  enabled  each  to  divine  the 
other's  thought  when  it  .was  but  half  uttered.  Either 
was  ready  to  resign  any  opinion  at  the  slightest  ex- 
postulation of  the  other,  for  both  had  the  flexibility 
of  belief  and  sentiment  which,  however  reprehensible 
from  a  moral  and  intellectual  stand-point,  makes 
conversation  a  delight.  Both  were  in  some  degree 
actuated  by  the  principle  which  had  governed  Marcy 
Forrester's  life, — the  intention  to  enjoy  existence  at 
any  cost.  Stephen  had  carried  out  this  intention 
pretty  thoroughly  always,  and  of  late  even  Bella  had 
failed  less  of  her  desire  than  she  was  accustomed  to 
do.  She  felt  a  sense  of  physical  lightness  and  elas- 
ticity, as  if  she  had  thrown  off  a  wearisome  burden; 
she  seemed  to  have  drunk  of  some  elixir  which  de- 
veloped undreamed-of  energies  and  made  her  capable 
of  undertaking  walking  and  climbing  exp^-litions 
of  stupendous  difficulty.  She  had  a  child's  keen 
delight  in  every  fresh  experience ;  she  was  worlds 
removed  from  the  languid  creature  who  a  few  weeks 
before  was  vainly  striving  to  interest  herself  in  em- 
broidery and  charcoal  studies. 

One  July  afternoon  they  all  descended  into  the 


ADRIFT. 


"3 


gorge  below  the  Falls  by  the  elevator  at  the  Whirl- 
pool Rapids.  At  this  point  the  bank  rises  fully  three 
hundred  feet  high,  its  gray  surface  here  and  there 
diversified  by  blood-red  strata.  Willows  clothe  the 
inaccessible  stony  wall  sparsely,  as  if  too  timid  to 
put  forth  a  vigorous  growth  on"  such  slight  footing. 
A  few  feet  from  the  base  of  this  wall  the  river  dashes 
furiously  r.long.  The  same  volume  of  water  which 
at  the  Falls  is  diffused  ov-r  a  ;^pace  four  thousand 
feet  in  width  is  at  the  Whirlpool  Rapids  crowded, 
crushed,  driven  through  a  narrow  gorge  of  but  one- 
tenth  of  this  width,  in  a  torrent  of  inconceivable  and 
appalling  force.  Wreaths  and  drifts  of  spriy  are 
whirled  into  the  air,  and  immense  cones  of  water 
are  constantly  forming,  sometimes  thirty  feet  high. 
If  there  is  any  suggestion  of  playfulness  in  this  rush 
and  tumble  and  roar  of  waters,  it  is  the  tigerish  glee 
of  huge  untamed  beasts,  as  rough  and  wild  in  their 
sportive  moods  as  in  their  rage. 

It  being  obviously  impossible  for  the  party  to 
go  in  opposite  directions  upon  the  one  path  which 
extends  down-stream  from  the  foot  of  the  elevator, 
a  compromise  was  effected  by  Bella  and  Stephen 
Brooks  seating  themselves  on  some  convenient  rocks, 
while  the  others  strolled  as  far  away  as  the  limita- 
tions of  the  spot  would  admit. 

The  two  thus  left  behind  had  just  before  taking 
the  elevator  finished  a  long  comparison  of  ideas  on 
a  certain  abstruse  subject ;  they  had  clearly  demon- 
strated that  misery  was  the  allotted  portion  of  hu- 
manity on  earth  and  annihilation  after  death ;  and 
it  was  a  little  difficult  cll  once  to  revert  from  this 
A  10* 


{. 
k 


■  4 

■■'  .a- 


i   ■•'! 


ft 

ill 


1 

1 

'i 

.,.* 

'M 

■'  ••'.( 

'    t 

M 

m 

114 


ADRIFT. 


gloomy  topic  to  the  light  and  agreeable  tone  of  their 
usual  converse.     Presently  the  young  man  said, — 

"  That  was  a  wonderful  thing  Robinson  did, — to 
pilot  the  *  Maid  of  the  Mist'  through  this  boiling 
caldron.  He  and  his  men,  Jones  and  Mclntyre,  are 
the  only  creatures  who  ever  came  through  it  alive. 
Think  of  his  nerve,  his  coolness,  his  bravery !  It 
was  a  grand  thing,  a  thing  worth  doing !" 

"  I  don't  know,"  demurred  Bella.  "  His  wife  said 
he  looked  twenty  years  older  when  he  reached 
home." 

"  Well,  I  won't  say  the  experience  was  worth 
twenty  real  years  of  common  life ;  but  surely  it  was 
worth  the  sacrifice  of  some  youthfulness  of  expres- 
sion ?" 

"  It  would  not  be  so  to  a  woman,"  said  Bella. 
"  Youth  and  its  appearance  are  worth  more  to  us 
than  all  the  other  things  of  this  world." 

*'  Yes,"  granted  .Stephen,  "  and  the  happiest  time 
in  a  woman's  life  is  when  she  is  just  old  enough  to 
realize  that  she  is  still  young." 

Bella  mused  a  moment;  that  time  had  only  very 
lately  come  to  her.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  asked, 
abruptly,  "  what  is  my  highest  ambition, — the  one 
thing  of  all  others  I  should  rather  do  ?" 

"  I've  no  idea  ;  pray  tell  me,"  pleaded  Stephen. 

'•  Well,  I  should  like  to  charter  a  big  steamboat, 
or  perhaps  have  one  built  at  the  foot  of  the  Falls, 
and  put  all  my  disagreeable  acquaintances  on  board, 
and  send  her  down  through  these  Whirlpool  Rapids 
v/ithout  any  Joel  R.  Robinson, — without  any  pilot 
at  all !" 


ADRIFT. 


"5 


Stephen  laughed.  "  Frightful  vindictivencss  !'*  he 
said.  "  Go  on ;  I'm  intensely  interested  to  know 
whom  you  would  doom  to  the  fate  of  poor  Matthew 
Webb." 

Bella  laughed  a  little,  too ;  it  was  very  nice,  she 
thought,  to  be  able  to  sadden  or  amuse  this  man  at 
will.  Diana  was  uniformly  shocked,  Mrs.  Bromley 
pained,  and  her  husband  bored  by  such  disclosures. 

•'  Let  me  see,"  she  deliberated.  "  Well,  I  should 
put  on  that  steamboat  all  the  people  I  know  who  do 
not  play  cards." 

•*  Oh,  come  now !"  protested  Stephen.  "  I  play 
myself,  of  course ;  but  there  are  lots  of  first-class 
people  who  don't." 

"And  why  do  not  they?  Because  they  disap- 
prove of  it,  because  it's  a  waste  of  time,  because  it 
dwarfs  the  intellect.  They  insult  persons  who  do 
play  by  telling  them  all  this ;  they  behave  as  if  they 
fancied  themselves  aureoled  saints.  Yes,  the  people 
who  do  not  play  cards  are  condemned  without  ex- 
ception ;  and,  what  is  more,  most  of  the  people  who 
do." 

"  Great  Scott!"  exclaimed  Stephen,  aghast  at  this 
wholesale  denunciation. 

"  The  people  who  tell  you  after  each  hand  is  played 
how  much  better  you  might  have  played  it;  who 
ask  what  is  trump ;  who  misdeal ;  who  take  their 
partner's  trick ;  who  quarrel ;  who  revoke, — these 
should  all  go  on  my  steamboat  I" 

"  And  the  lady  who  picks  up  the  cards  after  each 
and  every  hand  is  played,  innocently  asking,  '  Is  it 
my  deal  ?'  "  inquired  Stephen,  slyly. 


i 


m 


'  'iij 


I '  I 

V  ■';' ' 

.  .1' 

•■'.■  ji 

t.i 
1:1 


i^    ■ft 


Il6 


ADRIFT. 


"  All  young  girls,"  Bella  went  on,  ignoring  his 
question ;  "  in  fact,  all  the  youth  of  both  sexes ;  all 
unmarried  women.  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  the 
worst  possible  marriage  has  an  improving  effect  on  a 
girl's  manners ;  she  acquires  tact,  sympathy,  the 
knowledge  of  how  to  be  charming." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  have  to  build  a  whole 
fleet,"  remarked  Stephen. 

"  And  all  young  married  women  should  go  in," 
pursued  Bella.  "  Either  they  are  so  wrapped  up  in 
their  stupid  husbands  and  children  they  can  talk  of 
nothing  else,  or  they  are  flirts.  A  married  flirt  is 
detestable !" 

The  young  man  wondered  in  which  category  she 
would  place  herself,  but  dared  not  ask.  "  Widows, 
of  course  ?"  he  hazarded. 

"  No,  not  one ;  it's  impossible  for  a  widow  to  be 
anything  but  lovely.  If  she  truly  mourned  her  hus- 
band she  is  chastened  by  her  sorrow,  and  kinder  and 
tenderer  ever  after;  if  he  was  a  bad  husband  she  is 
as  happy  and  charming  in  her  new-found  freedom  as 
a  child  let  out  of  school." 

"  And  they  say  women  cannot  generalize  I"  mur- 
mured Stephen. 

"  People  who  tell  me  how  many  gray  hairs  I  am 
getting,"  proceeded  Bella. 

"  Surely  they  cannot  be  many,"  said  Stephen  ;  re- 
garding her  heavy  braids. 

"  The  gray  hairs,  or  the  people  ?  There  are  a 
great  many  of  the  latter,  I  assure  you,  but  I  sin- 
cerely trust  they  have  all  seen  the  same  single  hair. 
— All  the  people  who  eat  onions,  who  jump  off  street- 


ADRIFT. 


117 


cars  before  they  stop,  who  have  a  thirst  for  informa- 
tion, who  call  me  Bell  instead  of  Bella,  who  play  the 
violin,  who  giggle  at  nothing,  and  who  understand 
latitude  and  longitude !"  concluded  Bella. 

"  Would  not  you  yourself  feel  rather  lonely  ?" 
queried  Stephen. 

**  Indeed,  no ;  I  should  sit  on  this  very  stone  be- 
side the  watery  grave  of  all  those  uncongenial 
persons,  and  exult  in  the  certainty  of  never  meeting 
them  again." 

"  Well,  this  is  as  good  a  place  to  sit  as  any,"  said 
Stephen.  "  I  think  here  at  the  Whirlpool  Rapids 
one  fully  realizes  the  aboriginal  idea  of  the  river, — 
that  it  is  the  home  of  a  cruel,  angry  god,  who  is 
always  crying  for  human  lives." 

"  I  like  a  river,"  said  Bella,  gazing  disparagingly 
at  the  mountainous  billows  before  her,  "  whose  source 
is  in  the  tiniest  spring  in  the  woods,  where 

*  Blossoms  blue  the  mosses  dot, 
Murmuring,  Forget  me  not, — 
Dragon-flies  flit  o'er  the  spot.'  ' 


Then  it  is  a  little  tinkling  brook,  then  a  placid 
stream  in  whose  brown  depths  and  silver  shallows  we 
can  watch  the  trout  darting ;  then  it  is  a  broad,  calm 
river  upon  whose  bosom  we  float  unafraid,  for  we 
have  known  it  from  its  babyhood." 

"  Niagara  has  no  such  period  of  gradual  develop- 
ment; it  springs  full-grown  from  Lake  Erie,  as 
Minerva  sprang  from  the  head  of  Jove,"  said  Stephen. 
"  No,  it  cannot  be  called  a  friendly,  companionable 
stream.    We  are  never  at  home  in  it ;  we  can  never 


,  i 


V  t    " 


X' 


I; 
i; 


Is 


Ii8 


ADRIFT. 


forget  how  many  a  brave  swimmer  and  oarsman 
has  sunk  beneath  the  treacherous  waters. — By  the 
way,  Harvey  and  I  have  agreed  to  row  across 
above  the  Falls  as  near  the  brink  as  it  has  ever 
been  done." 

"  Do,  by  all  means  !"  mocked  Bella.  "  You  will 
gain  undying  honor  if  you  succeed ;  if  you  fail  you 
will  only  rid  the  earth  of  two  men  so  foolish  they 
did  not  deserve  to  live !" 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  look  as  much  older  as  Rob- 
inson did  ?"  laughed  Stephen ;  but  the  laugh  was 
arrested  by  an  ominous  crack  in  the  wall  far  above 
his  head.  He  looked  up ;  a  fragment  of  rock  at  that 
moment  detached  itself  from  a  lofty  crag  and  came 
crashing  down  with  frightful  velocity.  The  young 
man  had  only  time  to  seize  his  companion's  hands  in 
his  own,  crying  "  Bella,  Bella !"  and  snatch  her  a 
hair's-breadth  out  of  its  path,  when  the  stone  tore 
violently  by  and  plunged  into  the  river. 

They  clung  a  moment,  deathly  pale,  to  each 
other's  hands.  This  vision  of  sudden  death  seemed 
to  both  of  them  a  less  startling  thing  than  that  he 
should  have  pronounced  her  name  in  that  way, — as 
if  in  his  inmost  thought  she  was  always  "  Bella." 

"  Are  you  hurt  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Hurt?"  she  said,  vaguely.  "  No,  I  am  not  hurt, 
thanks  to  you."  She  freed  her  hands,  and  the  color 
came  back  to  her  face  in  one  swift  rush. 

Diana  and  Jerome  hurried  up  with  heartfelt  con- 
gratulations on  the  narrow  escape,  and  no  one  cared 
to  linger  long  in  the  scene  of  the  late  danger. 

When  they  parted  at  the  door  of  Diana's  house, 


^ 


ADRIFT. 


119 


it  was  a  very  cold  farewell  that  Mrs.  Forrester  vouch- 
safed to  Mr.  Brooks. 

"He  m.'st  learn  that  I  wish  to  be  given  a  more 
conventional  title  than  my  Christian  name,"  she  said, 
inwardly,  forgetting  that  "  No  step  backward"  is  the 
one  infallible  rule  governing  the  dealings  of  men 
with  women,  and  that  Stephen  Brooks,  having  once 
called  her  "  Bella"  would  thenceforward  artfully  con- 
trive never  to  call  her  "  Mrs.  Forrester." 


•«'  \k 


\ 


CHAPTER    XI. 


"Wisdom  and  goodness  to  the  vile  seem  vile." 

Shakespeare. 


'  i  j; 


To  use  his  own  terse  expressions,  Marcy  Forrester 
was  weakening ;  he  was  losing  his  grip.  He  knew 
it  by  the  admonitions  of  shortening  breath  and 
sluggish  heart ;  by  the  senile  tears  that  rose  unbidden 
to  his  eyes ;  by  vague  and  futile  promptings  in  the 
direction  of  that  Right  he  had  never  done  and  now 
never  could  do. 

He  knew  it  by  the  sudden  lethargy  of  mind  and 
body  that  fell  upon  him  in  the  first  hot  August  days. 
He  no  longer  cared  tC'  creep  about  the  garden  on 
Philippe's  arm,  nor  to  play  cribbage  with  Brooks, 
nor  tD  read  the  old  French  plays  with  Bella.  He 
grew  careless  about  the  garb  of  his  servants,  and 
allowed  them  to  call  each  other  John  and  Ellen  in 


i  ^'  ill 


I20 


ADRIFT. 


his  very  presence  unrebuked.  He  did  not  even  in- 
sist upon  Bella's  wearing  her  marquise  dress;  she 
had  never  put  it  on  since  that  first  evening, — she 
fancied  it  had  brought  her  ill-luck. 

But  he  recognized  the  decay  of  his  strength  most 
surely  in  that  worst  symptom  of  all,  insomnia.  De- 
barred by  his  nervous  susceptibility  from  using  ano- 
dynes, and  physically  unable  to  perform  exercise, 
that  best  sleep-procurer,  he  was  forced  night  after 
night  to  lie  awake  through  the  long  soundless  hours. 
He  regretted  nothing  he  had  ever  done,  and  felt  no 
faintest  stirrings  of  an  awakening  conscience;  but 
for  the  first  time  Memory  failed  of  her  kindest  office, 
and  ceased  as  utterly  to  reproduce  past  pleasures  as 
Hope  refused  to  promise  future  ones.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  always  lain  there,  old  and  helpless, 
watching  the  dull  gleam  of  his  night-lamp  and  the 
slow  melting  of  the  ice  in  the  carafe.  He  wished 
that  his  life  had  been  a  little  better  or  a  little  worse ; 
he  felt  neither  satisfaction  nor  remorse  in  retrospec- 
tion ;  existence  had  been  a  mere  dead  level,  after  all, 
void  of  the  heights  and  depths  of  joy  and  sorrow. 
And  whatever  it  had  been,  it  was  over  now !  Lying 
there  through  the  long  still  nights  he  realized  that 

"  Oh !  it  is  the  worst  of  pain 
To  feel  all  feeling  die  !" 

He  could  devise  no  amusement,  find  no  companion, 
to  enliven  those  dread  hushed  hours.  He  did  not 
lack  courage,  and  thought  often  of  suicide,  with  a 
growing  conviction  that  sooner  or  later  he  should 
resort  to  it.     But  not  yet,  not  yet  I 


ADRIFT. 


121 


One  morning  about  three  o'clock  he  heard  a  quiet 
footstep  in  the  hall  outside  of  his  room,  while 
through  the  door,  left  open  for  coolness,  floated  the 
odor  of  a  cigar. 

**Is  that  you,  Brooks?"  he  called.  "For  God's 
sake  come  in !" 

It  was  not  Brooks,  but  Harvey,  whom  the  heat 
had  rendered  sleepless,  and  who  had  been  sitting  on 
the  balcony  for  an  hour.  He  came  into  the  room, 
extinguished  his  cigar,  and  flung  it  into  the  fireless 
grate. 

"  Am  I  equally  welcome,  Mr.  Forrester  ?  I  hope 
I  didn't  wake  you." 

"  Any  human  being  would  be  welcome,"  said  the 
old  man,  fretfully.  '*  I  wish  you  could  have  waked 
me ;  it  would  imply  that  I  had  slept." 

"  It's  hard  not  to  be  able  to  sleep,"  sympathized 
Jerome.  "  Shall  I  sit  down  and  talk  with  you  ?  I 
wish  I  had  Brooks's  range  of  topics ;  then  I  could 
make  myself  interesting."  He  wheeled  an  easy- 
chair  from  a  shadowy  corner  to  the  bedside  and 
dropped  into  it.  His  deep-set  eyes  looked  bright 
and  kindly,  and  the  lines  of  his  tall  figure  even  in 
repose  betokened  unwearied  strength. 

Marcy  Forrester  tried  dreamily  to  recall  some 
German  legend  about  a  vampire  who  sucks  the  life- 
blood  of  youth  to  renew  its  own  declining  powers. 
He  wished  that  he  were  such  a  vampire ;  he  need 
not  go  far  to  seek  a  victim !  But  nothing  of  this 
appeared  in  his  weary  voice  or  in  his  manner,  which 
was  marked  by  a  sincerity  quite  phenomenal.     They 

talked  for  some  time  on  indifferent  matters,  while  in 
r  11 


M 


I'ltj 


^i 


!22 


ADRIFT. 


fi 


each  a  wavering  consciousness  grew  into  certainty 
that  morning  would  not  dawn  before  the  one  subject 
of  paramount  importance  to  Jerome  should  be  fully- 
discussed.  It  was  the  elder  man  who  first  put  this 
feeling  into  words. 

"  I  suppose,  since  we  are  alone  and  quiet,"  he  said, 
after  a  silence,  "  I  may  as  well  tell  you  to-night  the 
little  there  is  to  tell  about  your  mother." 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  said  Harvey,  eagerly,  but 
with  a  respect  born  of  the  other's  altered  manner. 
He  felt  grateful  that  Mr.  Forrester's  usual  jeers  and 
sneers  were  for  the  nonce  in  abeyance  to  a  graver 
mien. 

"  When  I  first  saw  her,"  began  the  old  man,  "  I 
was  about  your  present  age,  and  she  was  just  seven- 
teen. Certain  schemes  had  gone  wrong  with  me, 
and  the  night  before  I  had  been  drinking  heavily 
to  drown  disappointment.  I  woke  with  a  splitting 
headache,  and  went  down  on  one  of  the  docks — it 
was  in  New  York — to  get  the  ocean  breeze.  While 
I  was  there  a  steamship  came  in  from  California. — 
I  didn't  know  I  could  be  so  truthful  and  direct ;  I 
wonder  I'm  not  saying  the  boat  was  from  Europe 
and  the  girl  an  Irish  emigrant." 

"  Pray  go  on  !"  said  Jerome. 

"  Well,  the  California  steamer  came  slowly  up  to 
the  dock.  I  noticed  two  people  on  board,  first,  be- 
cause they  were  so  quiet  and  aimless  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  hurry,  next  because  of  their  dress.  They 
seemed  to  be  wearing  everything  money  could  buy, 
heaped  upon  them  with  an  absence  of  taste  and 
fitness  really  pitiful.     The  girl's  jewels  wc  ;ld  have 


•♦I 


ADRIFT. 


123 


graced  a  ball-room,  and  the  man  carried  on  his 
watch-chain  a  small  fortune  in  the  shape  of  a  gold 
nugget.  But  I  am  a  keen  observer,  and  I  knew  at 
once  that  this  was  the  ostentation  of  simplicity  rather 
than  of  vulgarity.  The  poor  things  thought  gor- 
geous apparel  an  irksome  but  proper  badge  >  f  their 
new-found  wealth.  They  were  the  very  last  pas- 
sengers to  disembark.  As  they  passed  me  on  the 
dock  I  heard  the  man  say,  looking  about  bewil- 
dered,— 

" '  It's  stranger  than  the  ship,  Alice.' 

"  *  Yes ;  oh,  yes  !'  she  said.  *  Oh,  father,  can't  we 
go  back  on  the  ship  and  not  get  off,  but  just  go  right 
home  again  ?' 

"  And  I  have  always  believed  they  would  have 
done  so,  had  I  not  at  that  instant  politely  offered  to 
assist  them." 

"  That  was  kind,"  said  Jerome. 

"  My  motive,  however,  was  no  kinder  than  it  has 
usually  been,"  said  the  old  man,  dryly.  "  But  it 
almost  touched  even  me  to  see  the  childish  relief 
with  which  they  turned  to  me.  I  helped  them  to 
find  a  plain  boarding-house,  not  choosing  to  share 
my  prey  with  the  loungers  about  a  hotel,  and  I  did 
not  leave  them  till  I  had  taught  them  to  regard  me 
as  their  dearest  friend  and  benefactor. 

"  Next  day  the  man  told  me  his  history.  His 
wife  had  died  when  their  little  girl  Alice  was  born, 
and  he  had  lived  alone  in  an  Indiana  village,  working 
at  his  trade, — blacksmithing, — until  the  craze  for  gold 
ran  like  a  fever  all  over  the  land.  Then  he  took 
Alice  and,  with  some  of  the  neighbors,  went  across 


.V. 


1    I  > 


n 


''  \\ 


124 


ADRIFT. 


the  plains  on  that  quest  which  so  many  found  fruit- 
less, but  in  which  he  had  been  singularly  prospered. 
Every  blow  of  his  pick  told,  and  in  five  years  he  had 
amassed  wealth.  Alice  was  the  idol,  and  he  himself 
the  magnate,  of  the  camp ;  but  he  felt  it  his  duty  to 
leave  it. 

" '  I  wanted  to  put  my  girl  in  a  fancy  school  East, 
and  give  her  them  lady  airs  the  women  round  camps 
don't  have,'  he  explained.  And  there  was  another 
reason :  he  had  had  a  heart-trouble  even  before  he 
went  to  California,  and  the  long  delving  among  the 
rocks  had  not  improved  it.  Jerome  Harvey  had 
worked  hard  to  pay  for  this  house  I  am  living  in, 
hadn't  he  ?" 

"Was  that  his  name?" 

"  That  was  his  name, — rather  a  grand  cognomen 
for  a  village  blacksmith,  eh  ? — Well,  he  had  no  rela- 
tives and  no  claim  on  any  one,  and  he  wanted  to  try 
to  make  friends  with  some  nice  women  in  order  to 
leave  Alice  in  their  charge. 

"  *  Was  there  ever  such  luck  as  our  meeting  you  ? 
You  are  just  the  man  to  help  us !'  he  said  again  and 
again,  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  while  his  rugged  face 
would  fairly  shine  with  satisfaction.  And  Alice,  too, 
would  appeal  to  me  in  little  difficulties  every  hour  or 
so,  for  I  was  with  them  all  day  long.  They  had 
been  so  great  in  their  little  Western  world,  and  were 
such  mere  nobodies  in  New  York ;  even  their  wealth 
was  but  a  pittance  there;  they  were  cowed  and 
lonely." 

"  They  v/ere,  at  any  rate,  nothing  to  be  ashamed 
of,"  said  Jerome. 


ADRIFT. 


125 


"  It  was  only  three  weeks  after  their  arrival  that  I 
offered  to  marry  Alice.  Strange,  isn't  it,  how  truth- 
ful I  am  ?  I  might  say  I  never  married  her, — you'd 
never  know.  But  I  knew  well  enough  I  dared  not 
trifle  with  Harvey,  so  I  proposed  to  marry  her.  He 
couldn't  have  been  more  gratified  if  I  had  been  a 
prince  of  the  blood  royal ;  he  never  asked  about  my 
means,  my  family,  or  anything  else.  Alice  did  not 
love  me, — she  seemed  too  timid,  too  much  a  child 
for  that, — but  she  wanted  to  please  her  father,  and  so 
we  were  quietly  married,  and  I  came  to  live  in  the 
boarding-house  too.  Then  I  watched  for  a  chance 
to  carry  off  all  the  old  fool's  money. 

"  Why,  can't  you  see  that  I  had  a  certain  sort  of 
right  to  it?"  he  asked,  digressing  a  moment  to 
reply  to  Jerome's  steady  gaze  of  concentrated  scorn. 
"  They  couldn't  appreciate  money ;  it  made  them 
wretched  to  have  it  and  know  they  were  getting  no 
good  of  it.  They  would  have  really  been  happier 
back  under  the  pines,  wearing  coarse  flannels  and 
eating  with  knives.  However,  I  was  not  obliged  to 
run  off  with  the  money.  When  Alice  and  I  had 
been  married  about  three  months,  she  sat  one  even- 
ing playing  euchre  with  her  father ;  it  was  one  of 
the  habits  they  had  brought  from  camp.  At  such 
times  they  would  grow  quite  merry,  and  I  could  see 
that  Alice  had  not  been  such  a  spiritless  creature  in 
the  old  free  life.  They  were  very  lively  this  evening, 
and  presently  Alice  cried  out,  gayly, — 

"  *  You're  euchred,  father !  you're  euchred !' 

" '  Yes,  Alice,'  he  answered,  heavily,  *  I'm  euchred  !' 

"  I  flung  down  my  newspaper  and   ran  to  him, 

11* 


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ill. 


.,;>■ 


126 


ADRIFT. 


alarmed  by  his  slow  thick  utterance ;  Alice's  laugh 
dwindled  off  into  a  scared  moan ;  he  pressed  one 
hand  on  his  heart  and  tore  with  the  other  at  his 
collar ;  his  face  turned  gray  under  our  eyes. 

" '  Be  kind — kind — to  my  girl !'  he  f^asped,  and 
the  next  instant  fell  forward,  stone-dead,  down  among 
the  cards. 

"  Well,  young  fellow,  I'm  glad  I  never  loved,  since 
love  can  make  people  suffer  as  that  poor  girl  did. 
For  hours  she  made  us  try  all  sorts  of  vaia  restora- 
tives; she  would  not  pause  to  weep,  lest  precious 
minutes  should  be  lost  so.  When  at  last  she  was 
forced  to  see  the  truth  she  sobbed  and  raved  till  she 
fell  into  an  exhausted  stupor,  from  which  she  only 
woke  to  weep  and  rave  again  This  continued  to  be 
her  state  for  days  after  the  funeral,  until  I  took  her 
to  a  quiet  little  town  by  the  sea.  There  by  degrees 
she  grew  calmer,  though  her  face  never  lost  the 
stricken  look  it  took  on  the  night  her  father  died. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  ever  got  through  the  months 
that  followed.  Harvey  had  not  been  such  a  fool 
after  all,  for  he  had  tied  up  the  money  so  that  no  one 
but  his  daughter  could  touch  it,  and  she,  gentle  and 
timid  though  she  was,  was  yet  determined  that  every 
dollar  should  be  kept  for  the  child  she  expected. 
Had  I  not  been  in  serious  pecuniary  difficulties  I 
should  have  lost  patience  and  cut  the  whole  thing. 
As  it  was,  I  wonder  I  didn't  poison  her.  I  had  the 
will  to  do  it;  but  it  really  seemed  as  if  guardian 
angels  stood  between  that  girl  and  harm,  and  after- 
wards between  her  baby  and  harm.  And  before 
very  long  I  saw  that  she  would  step  out  of  my  way 


vx 


T 


ADRIFT. 


127 


just  as  her  father  had  done.  Strangers  used  to 
shake  their  heads  and  look  mournfully  at  each  other 
as  they  passed  her  sitting  on  the  sands.  She  liked 
to  listen  to  the  waves, — said  the  sound  made  her 
think  of  the  wind  in  the  pines  around  the  camp. 
Well,  all  that  summer  and  autumn  she  just  wasted 
away." 

"  You  murdered  her !"  cried  Jerome,  fiercely. 
"  You  let  her  die  of  homesickness,  poor  lonely  little 
thing.  The  least  spark  of  love  would  have  warmed 
and  cheered  her;  but  you  did  not  give  it." 

"  Don't  say  did  not,  say  could  not,"  corrected  the 
old  man.  *'  It  never  was  in  me  to  love,  any  more 
than  it  is  in  that  girl  Diana."  He  smiled  at  the 
strong  negation  in  Jerome's  face.  "  Well,  at  last 
October  came  and  the  child  was  born, — yourself 
She  lay  for  hours  afterwards  in  a  heavy  swoon.  No 
one  thought  she  would  ever  come  out  of  it,  but  quite 
suddenly  she  roused,  and  in  a  faint  voice  directed 
the  nurse  to  bring  her  some  ^  apers  from  her  trunk, 
— the  bank-books  and  securities. 

"  *  They're  all  yours  now, — yours  and  the  baby's,' 
she  said,  putting  them  into  my  hands;  she  was 
already  too  far  above  the  earth  to  remember  her 
slight  distrust  of  me.  Then  she  seemed  to  want 
something  else,  but  was  too  far  gone  to  tell  us  what. 
One  of  the  women  fetched  a  Bible ;  that  was  not  it. 
Another  spoke  of  the  child ;  she  shook  her  head. 
At  last  the  nurse  brought  the  worn  old  pack  of 
cards  that  had  dropped  out  of  Harvey's  dying  hand. 
Alice  had  never  played  since,  but  she  often  sat  clasp- 
ing her  father's  cards  as  if  she  felt  his  touch  upon 


1" 


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ADRIFT. 


them  still.  She  closed  her  thin  fingers  over  them 
now  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

" '  Now  she'll  look  at  the  baby,  last  of  all,  poor 
lamb,'  said  the  nurse,  and  she  put  you  on  thef  pillow 
close  to  the  pinched  white  face.  Alice  lifted  her 
eyes  in  one  quick  question. 

"  *  It's  a  boy,  my  dear,  a  lovely  boy,*  sobbed  the 
nurse. 

"  '  Yes,'  said  the  mother,  rallying  faintly ;  *  yes, — 
Jerome  Harvey  1' 

"  That  was  the  last.  Whci^  they  buried  her,  though 
some  of  the  women  thought  it  wicked,  the  nurse 
slipped  the  old  cards  under  her  shroud. 

'•  Then  there  was  only  one  thing  for  me  to  do, — to 
dispose  of  you.  I  never  tried  so  hard  to  please  a 
living  creature  as  I  tried  to  please  those  two  dead 
ones.  I  have  never  been  able  to  account  for  it,  un- 
less it  was  that  their  simple  goodness  had  infected 
me,  and  I  couldn't  at  first  shake  it  off.  At  last  I  hit 
upon  the  plan  which  I  adopted  :  I  placed  you  with 
a  man  as  true  and  straightforward  as  your  grand- 
father himself" 

"  For  which  one  thing  I  thank  you,"  said  Jerome. 
He  did  not  dare  to  think  what  Marcy  Forrester's 
own  training  might  have  made  him. 

"  Have  you  ever  imagined  the  feelings  of  a  man 
cut  down  when  nearly  dead  from  hanging?  After 
the  first  few  agonized,  choking  breaths,  how  precious 
the  life  so  lately  jeopardized  must  seem  !  Just  so  I 
felt  when  I  had  left  you  on  Joseph  Brooks's  door- 
step. It  was  a  soft,  moonless  night,  and  as  I  drove 
along  I  broke  the  stillness  by  exultant  whoops  and 


ADRIFT. 


\2l^ 


yells,  rising  in  the  buggy  now  and  then  to  lash  the 
startled  horse.  Oh,  the  joy  of  being  forever  rid  of 
those  people,  with  their  fatuous  fondness  for  each 
other  and  their  idiotic  honesty !  I  was  richer  than  I 
had  ever  hoped  to  be,  and  I  was  free !  If  any  one 
had  met  mc  tearing  along  that  night  over  the  quiet 
country  roads,  he  would  have  thought  me  a  demon. 
I  flung  behind  me  the  whole  year  of  insupportable 
dulness  I  had  passed  with  Alice  Harvey,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  enjoy  its  reward.  Until  this  spring  my 
mind  literally  never  recurred  to  that  year  except 
when  it  was  time  to  remit  to  Joseph  Brooks  the 
semi-annual  allowance.  That,  I  trust,  never  failed 
to  reach  him  ?" 

"  It  never  failed ;  but  I  myself  have  not  touched  a 
cent  of  the  money  since  I  could  earn  my  bread." 

"  You  need  have  had  no  scruples ;  it  was  honest, 
hard-earned  money,  to  which  you  had  a  perfect  right. 
You  have  of  course  a  right  to  another  thing, — the 
name  of  Forrester." 

"  I  disclaim  it !"  said  the  young  man  with  haughty 
promptness.  "  I  am  and  shall  remain  Jerome  Har- 
vey!" He  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  beside  it 
erect  and  firm. 

"  Your  mother  left  a  package  for  you ;  you  will 
find  it  in  yonder  cabinet.  The  key  is  in  the  lock," 
said  the  old  man ;  and  as  Jerome  walked  over  to  the 
cabinet  he  followed  him  with  eyes  whose  hard  black 
glitter  was  subdued  by  a  certain  wistfulness. 

The  young  man  readily  found  a  little  package 
wrapped  in  yellow  paper  and  inscribed  in  girlish, 
almost   childish,   writing, — "  For  my  Dear   Baby." 


I 
I 


t;i) 


I'  <''•! 


■   !.' 


■   .1: 


■;;:j;;:. 


I30 


ADRIFT. 


With  indescribable  reverence  he  broke  the  seal  and 
looked  on  the  trifles  it  contained,-^a  wedding-ring,  a 
lock  of  soft  brown  hair  and  one  of  grizzled  black 
and  white,  a  golden  nugget,  and  a  baby's  half-finished 
silken  sock,  in  which  the  needle  rested  still,  just  as 
the  tired  fingers  had  dropped  it.  Round  the  nugget 
was  a  scrap  of  paper  marked,  "  Father  used  to  wear 
this  on  his  watch-chain." 

As  he  gazed  on  these  things,  two  great  tears 
gathered  in  Jerome's  eyes.  A  tenderness  beyond 
words  softened  the  stern  outlines  of  his  face.  Marcy 
Forrester,  watching  him,  felt  a  new,  strange  impulse, 
an  impulse  of  pure  affection.  He  raised  himself  on 
his  elbow. 

*'  My  boy,  my  son !"  he  called,  tremulously. 

Jerome  glanced  sharply  up.  The  tears  fell,  leaving 
his  eyes  hard  and  cold  as  ice.  "  Do  not  call  me 
son !"  he  said.  "  It  is  my  turn  to  disown  you."  He 
paused  while  he  replaced  the  relics  in  their  wrapper. 
"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Forrester,"  he  went  on,  "  for  at 
last  telling  me  the  truth ;  I  thank  God,  and  not  you, 
that  no  stain  lies  on  my  mother's  honor ;  and  now  I 
will  bid  you  good-by,  for  before  you  are  up  Brooks 
and  I  will  be  gone." 

He  strode  rapidly  to  the  door.  The  old  man  sunk 
back  on  his  pillow.  At  that  moment  the  night-lamp 
flickered  and  went  out. 

"  Good-by,  sir,"  repeated  Jerome,  more  gently, 
pausing  at  the  door  for  a  reply.  None  came;  but 
after  a  space  a  long  sigh  fluttered  across  the  dark- 
ness and  silence. 

Jerome  dashed  aside  the  curtains  and  shutters; 


ADRIFT. 


131 


the  gray  light  of  dawn  streamed  over  an  ashen  face, 
and  he  saw  that  Marcy  Forrester  was  deaf  to  harsh 
and  kindly  words  alike.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  in 
five  minutes  Philippe  was  riding  for  a  doctor ;  Celeste 
was  on  her  knees  making  a  fire  in  the  grate,  for  the 
chill  of  death  seemed  suddenly  to  have  entered  the 
room;  Brooks  was  holding  ammonia  to  the  thin, 
motionless  nostrils ;  and  Harvey  had  yielded  up  his 
resolve  to  quit  the  house  that  morning. 


d* 


CHAPTER    XII. 


"  Love  while  ye  may ;  if  twain  grow  into  one, 
'Tis  for  a  little  while ;  the  time  goes  by. 
No  hatred  'twixt  the  pair  of  friends  doth  lie. 
No  troubles  break  their  hearts — and  yet,  and  yet, — 
How  could  it  be  ?  we  strove  not  to  forget ; 
We  played  old  parts,  we  used  old  names, — in  vain. 
We  go  our  ways  and  twain  once  more  are  twain." 

Morris. 


'!'     \ 


However  alarming  in  appearance  it  had  been,  Mr. 
Forrester's  seizure  was  a  mere  fainting  fit,  from  which 
he  was  without  much  difficulty  aroused  even  before 
the  arrival  of  a  physician.  When  the  latter  came  he 
declared  the  attack  to  have  been  induced  by  excite- 
ment, and  very  gently  reprimanded  his  pat'ent  for 
indulgence  in  too  stimulating  conversation.  Had 
there  been  the  slightest  hope  of  prolonging  the  old 
man's  life  for  more  than  a  very  few  weeks  at  far- 
thest, the  reprimand  would  have  been  stern  enough 


''■■:■  si! 


132 


ADRIFT. 


to  be  effective ;  but  Dr.  Tevan  philosophically  con- 
sidered that  his  patient  might  as  well  amuse  himself 
during  the  short  span  of  earthly  existence  that  re- 
mained to  him.  Dr.  Tevan  found  his  own  happiness 
at  the  domestic  hearth  and  in  the  calm  discharge  of 
duty;  still  he  was  not  so  rigidly  virtuous  as  to 
grudge  Marcy  Forrester  his  less  legitimate  joys,  and 
could  quite  understand  how  he  took  pleasure  in  ren- 
dering himself  obnoxious  to  relatives  and  servants. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Forrester,"  was  the  physician's  re- 
monstrance, when  he  had  cleared  the  room  of  all 
intruders,  "  you  ha/e  been  in  a  passion,  have  uttered 
loud  imprecations,  and  have  showered  blows  upon 
the  object  of  your  wrath.  You  know  you  mustn't 
do  so." 

"Diagnosis  as  incorrect  as  usual,"  sJd  the  old 
man,  with  a  feeble  chuckle.  The  two  were  about 
the  same  age,  but  Dr.  Tevan,  with  his  ruddy  color 
and  well-nourished  frame,  looked  twenty  years  the 
younger.  "  No,  doctor,  you're  entirely  wrong.  I've 
not  been  squabbling  ;  I've  had  a  little  sentimental 
talk  with  my  son,  that's  all, — the  taller  of  the  two 
young  men  you  just  dismissed  from  the  room." 

"  Your  son  ?"  echoed  the  other,  with  a  whistle  of 
amaze.  Marcy  Forrester  had  something  to  show 
for  his  life,  after  all. 

"Yes;  my  heir  also.  He  has  been  called,  and 
intends  still  to  call  himself,  by  his  mother's  maiden 
name ;  but  she  was  really  my  wife.  The  interview 
in  which  I  acknowledged  him  to  be  my  son  upset 
me  a  little ;  it  was  unexpectedly  tender  and  tearful." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Dr.  Tevan,  dryly.     "  Well,  Mr. 


■Ili 


ADRIFT. 


133 


Forrester,  if  there  are  any  other  young  persons  to 
whom  you  intend  to  announce  yourself  as  a  father, 
I  advise  you  to  perform  the  ceremony  by  proxy.  I 
will  act  in  that  capacity  at  any  time.  Miss  Diana, 
now, — are  there  no  startling  disclosures  to  be  made 
to  her?" 

"  Well,  not  of  a  very  affecting  nature." 

"  I  dare  say  it's  like  smoking,"  said  Dr.  Tevan. 
"  The  first  cigar  makes  one  deathly  sick,  while  after 
that  there  isn't  so  much  as  a  qualm.  It  will  be 
comparatively  easy  for  you  to  lay  claim  to  a  dozen 
offspring  now." 

"  Tevan,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 

"  If  it  is  to  give  you  hydrate  of  chloral,  I  won't 
do  it." 

"  Oh,  it's  not  that ;  I  think  I  shall  sleep  now." 

"  I  think  you  ought  to,  in  the  consciousness  of 
duty  accomplished." 

"If  I  had  regarded  it  as  a  duty  I  would  never 
have  done  it.  Tevan,  I  want  you  to  persuade  that 
young  fellow  to  stay  here." 

"  Here  ?  in  your  room  ?" 

"  No,  only  in  the  house,  as  he  has  been  doing 
these  two  months.  Tell  him  every  day  he  stays  is 
a  thousand  dollars  in  his  pocket;  that  his  going 
will  tear  my  aged  heart-strings  to  pieces  ;  tell  him, 
in  short,  any  lie  you  like,  only  persuade  him  to 
stay." 

Dr.  Tevan  laughed.  "  I've  never  been  able  to  in- 
vent lies  in  my  own  time  of  need,  and  shall  I  in  be- 
half of  another  ?"  he  asked.     "  However,  I'll  do  my 

best  for  you.     Now  drink  this  and  be  quiet.     Above 

12 


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134 


ADRIFT. 


all  things,  don't  recognize  any  more  sons  without 
consulting  me." 

He  administered  a  soothing  draught,  talked  a 
little  longer,  till  the  old  man  composed  himself  to 
sleep,  and  then  noiselessly  left  the  room.  The 
young  men  met  him  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Forrester  ?"  inqiured  Jerome. 

'•  As  well  as  he  was  yesterday ;  as  well  as  he  will 
ever  be  again.  You  know,  do  you  no  ,  that  his 
death  is  a  mere  matter  of  weeks, — of  days,  rather  ?" 

"  Indeed  ?"  said  Jerome.  No  agony  of  apprehen- 
sion was  visible  in  his  face. 

"  Fact,  I  assure  you.  Whoever  crosses  his  least 
wish  will  make  it  a  matter  of  hours.  By  the  way, 
he  hopes  you  will  not  terminate  your  visit  very 
soon." 

"  I  am  willing  to  postpone  my  departure  twenty- 
four  hours,  not  longer." 

"  Then  you  will  have  to  return  next  day  for  the 
funeral,"  said  Dr.  Tevan.  He  sternly  asked  himself 
if  this  were  not  putting  it  a  little  too  strong ;  but 
knew  not  how  to  modify  his  assertion. 

"  Oh,  we're  not  going  to  hustle  the  old  chap  into 
his  grave  that  way,"  declared  Stephen.  "  I'll  answer 
for  it  that  Harvey  stays  till  he  wears  out  his  wel- 
come. Won't  you  wait  and  have  some  coffee  ?"  he 
asked,  affably.  This  hospitality  being  declined,  he 
walked  with  the  doctor  down  to  the  road,  and  when 
he  had  untied  the  horse,  sent  a  cordial  "  Drop  in 
any  time,  doctor !"  after  the  retreating  vehicle. 

Returning  to  his  friend,  the  two  passed  through 
the  house  and  sat  down  on  the  rear  veranda.     The 


ADRIFT. 


135 


atmosphere  had  the  ineffable  freshness  of  early- 
morning;  the  dew  gemmed  every  rose-spray  and 
grass-blade  and  sparkled  on  the  petals  of  the  tall 
white  lilies.  The  pines  at  the  foot  of  the  garden 
were  not  so  dense  as  to  exclude  glimpses  of  the 
Canadian  bank,  which  still  lay  wrapped  in  a  tremu- 
lous, pearly  mist. 

Jerome,  a  trifle  pale  and  haggard  from  his  vigil, 
recounted  Mr.  Forrester's  revelations  to  Brooks, 
whose  disappointment  at  the  commonplace  character 
of  the  story  no  words  can  express.  He  had  not  be- 
lieved that  any  episode  so  conventional  as  a  marriage 
had  marked  his  host's  career,  and  he  was  much  an- 
noyed by  the  fact  that  his  acumen  had  been  at  fault. 

"  I  can  do  better  than  that  on  paper,"  he  said,  de- 
jectedly. "Anything  more  inartistic  I  never  heard. 
No  love,  no  crime,  no  jealousy, — nothing !  Of 
course,"  more  cheerfully,  "on  your  account,  old 
fellow,  it's  just  as  well  they  were  married." 

"  Oh,  you  really  think  so  ?" 

"Not  only  because  it  makes  you  feel  better,  you 
know,  but  because  at  that  old  rascal's  death — I  beg 
your  pardon !" 

"  You  may  consider  the  relationship  as  non- 
existent," said  Jerome.     He  is  an  old  rascal." 

"Well,  at  his  death  there  will  be  a  nice  little  penny 
coming  to  you." 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  would  touch  a  cent  of  it  ? 
It's  filthy  lucre,  if  money  ever  was." 

"  You  don't  mean  you  will  refuse  to  be  Mr.  For- 
rester's heir  ?  I  only  wish  I  was  his  son.  Perhaps 
I  am  I     No,  that  couldn't  be— 


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136 


ADRIFT. 


"  Oh,  keep  still  1  No,  I  am  not  going  to  handle 
money  made  in  gambling-hells,  in  blackmail,  in  every 
species  v^f  cheating." 

"  Why,  you're  way  off!  Who  wants  you  to  take 
that  ill-gotten  wealth  ?  I  wouldn't  have  you  do  it 
for  the  world.  All  I  stipulate  for  is  your  taking 
your  grandfather's  hard  earnings.  There's  some- 
thing sublime  in  the  thought  that  for  millions  of 
years  frost  and  fire  and  all  the  unseen  chemic  action 
of  the  underworld  labored  to  produce  that  virgin 
gold,"  said  Stephen,  waxing  poetic;  "that  Mother 
Earth  garnered  her  treasure  safely,  closely  in  her 
bosom,  century  after  century;  that  Jerome  Harvey 
slaved  and  struggled,  day  in,  day  out,  in  snow,  sun, 
wind,  in  sickness  and  in  pain  perhaps,  to  win  that 
secret  hiding-place.  I  tell  you  it's  consecrated  gold, 
Jerome !  I'm  not  given  to  fine  feelings,  but  hang 
me  if  I  like  to  see  money  wrung  from  the  very  rocks 
by  honest  toil  wasted  and  squandered  as  your  grand- 
father's gains  have  been  and  will  be !" 

Jerome,  stirred  by  this  new  idea,  remained  silent. 
Stephen  pursued  his  advantage. 

"  This  money  is  yours  even  now  by  law ;  you  have 
no  more  right  to  reject  it  than  to  cut  off  an  arm  or 
a  leg.  And  think,  Jerome  !  you  could  not  only  leave 
the  tread-mill  of  work  ;  not  only  travel,  enjoy,  learn, 
but  you  could  be  a  George  Peabody  in  a  modest 
way;-  you  could 

*  Raise  the  fallen,  cheer  the  faint, 
Heal  the  sick,  and  lead  the  blind !' 


as  mother  used  to  sing." 


ADRIFT. 


137 


"There's  something  in  what  you  say,"  granted 
Jerome,  "  and  I  don't  mind  thinking  it  over.  But  I 
must  leave  here  at  all  events.  I  should  despise  my- 
self for  lingering  now  that  I  have  got  what  I  waited 
for." 

"  If  the  old  gentleman  is  really  as  ill  as  Dr.  Tevan 
says,  are  you  still  bent  upon  going  ?" 

"  Decidedly.  I  shall  depart  as  soon  as  Mr.  For- 
rester recovers  from  this  present  attack.  He  has  no 
claim  upon  me  which  I  acknowledge." 

**  Do  you  think  that  because  he  was  a  bad  father 
you  have  a  right  to  be  a  bad  son  ?"  demanded  Stephen, 
sternly.  "  True,  he  abandoned  you  in  helpless  in- 
fancy ;  but  it  was  to  leave  you  in  care  more  tender 
than  his  own.  He  gave  you  at  least  all  you  needed ; 
will  you  give  him  nothing  in  return  ?" 

"  Can  I  give  him  love,  obedience,  filial  respect,  at 
a  moment's  notice?"  asked  Harvey.  "You  could, 
very  likely ;  I  am  not  so  tractable." 

"  You  might  stay  by  him  and  keep  him  company  in 
these  last  days ;  it  won't  be  for  long,"  urged  Stephen. 
"  It's  cruel  of  you,  Jerome,  to  leave  the  poor  old  fel- 
low so  lonely  and  unfriended.  The  tie  between  you 
is  none  of  your  making,  to  be  sure ;  nevertheless,  it 
binds  you  fast." 

Jerome  had  rarely  seen  his  friend  in  this  virtuous 
mood,  and  the  unwonted  seriousness  of  Brooks's 
argun^.ent  was  not  without  its  effect  on  him.  He 
had  never  disregarded  the  call  of  duty;  if  it  sum- 
moned him  now  to  watch  by  his  father's  dying  bed, 
he  would  do  so. 

"  Besides,"  proceeded   Brooks,   descending   to   a 


\z* 


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11^  I'  '11 


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138 


ADRIFT. 


lower  plane,  "  have  you  no  inclination  to  prolong 
your  llirtation  with  Miss  Diana  ?" 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  can  write." 

"Are  you  sure  she  is  sufficiently  interested  in  you 
to  read  your  letters  ?" 

"  She  might  not,"  confessed  Jerome.  "  But  it's 
useless  to  deny  it,  Stephen,  you  have  some  axe  of 
your  own  to  grind  in  all  this.     What  is  it?" 

"  Then  you  don't  believe  that  I  surrender  New 
York  in  August  for  this  shady  retreat  from  pure  un- 
selfishness ?"  said  Stephen,  He  had  a  fleeting  im- 
pulse to  make  a  clean  breast  of  his  motives ;  but 
Jerome,  with  his  slight  pallor  and  fatigue,  had  more 
than  ever  the  air  of  a  severe  young  monk,  and  he  re- 
frained. "  The  fact  is,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  I'm  taking 
notes  for  an  elaborate  series  of  historical  sketches 
concerning  this  locality,  and  of  course  it  would  add 
to  their  color  and  picturesqueness  could  I  remain  on 
the  spot  a  little  longer." 

"  Good  for  you,  old  fellow !"  said  Jerome.  "  I 
always  thought  you  had  it  in  you  to  do  some  first-class 
work.  I  see  no  reason,  however,  why  you  should 
not  stay  alone  ;  you  are  surely  more  welcome  than  I." 
'What!  linger  en  here  when  the  rightful  scion  of 
the  house  is  gone,  to  cheat  you  of  your  inheritance 
and  your  father's  last  blessing  ?"  said  Stephen ;  his 
laugh  was  a  little  forced,  for  he  found  a  certain  ele- 
ment of  pathos  in  his  friend's  perfect  trust.  "  No, 
Jerome,  let  us  both  make  our  holiday  a  little  longer; 
the  rest  is  doing  you  good;  I  haven't  seen  you  look- 
ing so  \.  ell  in  years ;  let  us  see  our  host  afloat  on 
Styx ;  promise,  won't  you  ?" 


ADRIFT. 


139 


"  Oh,  I  dare  say  I  shall ;  I  seem  to  have  no  will 
of  my  own  lately,"  grumbled  Jerome. 

"  That's  a  nice  boy !"  said  Stephen. 

The  odor  of  coffee  had  been  for  some  time  wafted 
out  to  where  they  .sat,  and  at  this  moment  Philippe 
rang  the  breakfast  bell.  Jerome  led  the  way  into  the 
dining-room,  and  as  Stephen  followed  him  he  smiled 
at  the  "pilulous  smallness"  of  the  circumstances 
which  determine  human  conduct.  The  historical 
studies  were  of  course  a  pure  figment,  and  he  would 
have  permitted  Harvey  to  return  to  New  York 
without  a  protest  had  Bella  Forrester's  blue-gray  eyes 
been  one  whit  less  innocent  and  appealing ;  had  she 
praised  less  warmly  the  verses  he  constantly  sub- 
mitted to  her  criticism ;  nay,  had  she  even  chosen  to 
wear  pink  beads  instead  of  the  pale  yellow  ones  that 
suited  her  round  white  throat  so  well. 

The  person  to  whom  Mrs.  Forrester's  mental  and 
physical  graces  should  have  been  objects  of  supreme 
importance — namely,  her  husband — was  at  the  close 
of  this  day  seated  on  Mrs.  Bromley's  veranda.  He 
was  permitted  to  sit  there  as  often  as  was  consistent 
with  that  lady's  avowed  intention  of  furnishing  no 
occasion  for  gossip.  He  was  devoted  to  children, 
and  not  only  said  but  actually  thought  that  Mrs. 
Bromley's  little  girls  were  the  loadstars  which  drew 
him  to  her  house.  The  children  retired  early,  how- 
ever, and  on  this  evening  the  conversation  was  not 
enlivened  by  their  chatter.  A  stream  of  water  de- 
scended from  the  hose,  manipulated  by  a  boy  on  the 
sidewalk,  over  lawn  and  pavement,  diffusing  a  grate- 


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140 


ADRIFT, 


w 


ful  coolness  through  the  surrounding  air.  A  light 
breeze  shook  the  shining  wet  leaves  of  lilacs  and 
laburnums  till  they  made  a  dark  glitter  in  the  rays 
of  the  street  lamps.  Now  and  then  a  bicycle  flashed 
rapidly  by  on  the  asphalt,  silent  as  a  ghost.  From 
other  not  distant  verandas  the  low  hum  of  voices, 
broken  occasionally  by  a  low  ripple  of  laughter, 
floated  across  the  intervening  shrubbery;  the  soft 
continuous  sprinkle  and  patter  of  the  water  lulled 
Jack  Forrester's  busy  brain  to  rest. 

That  was  after  all  the  simple  secret  of  Mrs.  Brom- 
ley's attraction  for  him, — in  her  presence  he  found 
rest.  She  had  not  to  his  knowledge  one  single 
vanity,  caprice,  or  affectation ;  she  demanded  neither 
flattery  nor  pity,  neither  slavish  obedience  nor  un- 
remitting attentions.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she 
never  spoke  till  he  was  on  the  eve  of  wishing  her  to 
speak;  that  she  always  said  the  one  thing  he  had 
been  vaguely  and  indefinitely  hoping  she  would 
say. 

"  John,"  she  observed,  this  evening,  with  some 
degree  of  earnestness,  "  I  am  thinking  about  Bella." 

"  So  am  I,"  he  responded.  **  Do  you  know,  I 
think  it's  the  best  thing  that  ever  happened,  her 
going  away  for  all  summer  like  this,  instead  of  a  few 
weeks  at  a  crowded  sea-side  hotel.  Her  mind  will 
recover  its  tone, — if  it  ever  had  any  tone, — and  she 
will  be  a  new  woman  this  autumn." 

"  How  was  she  looking  when  you  were  down  there 
last  week  ?" 

"  Splendidly  I  never  saw  her  looking  better.  You 
hear  from  her  every  few  days,  I  suppose  ?" 


ADRIFT. 


141 


"  Oh,  yes  ;  she  writes  long  lively  letters,  and  seems 
to  be  in  the  best  spirits,"  said  Mrs.  Bromley.  After 
a  moment  she  sighed. 

"  Why  that  sigh  ?"  inquired  the  gentleman.  "  You 
are  not  going  to  do  puzzling  things,  I  hope?  It's 
unaccountable,  your  sighing  because  your  dearest 
friend  is  in  good  spirits." 

"  I  was  only  thinking  it  must  be  somewhat  dull 
for  Bella,"  said  Vivictte.  She  flushed  guiltily;  but 
through  the  gloom  John  could  distinguish  the  out- 
lines only  of  her  face  and  black-robed  figure. 

"Dull?  You  know  nothing  about  it.  There  are 
two  young  men  at  my  uncle's, — his  sons,  I  fancy, 
who  will  cut  me  out  of  his  money, — and  Bella  seems 
to  enjoy  herself  immensely.  One  is  a  tall,  lanky 
chap,  too  quiet  and  sober ;  the  other  is  more  in 
Bella's  style, — a  sort  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  you  know, 
intellectual  and  literary.  He  doesn't  look  it  at  all ; 
he's  rather  thick-set,  drinks  a  little,  smokes  inces- 
santly ;  but  Bella  said  of  course  he  would  not  pre- 
sent the  profound  side  of  his  nature  to  me." 

Mrs.  Bromley,  secure  in  the  darkness,  smiled  and 
said  nothing.  Bella  had  given  her  full  analyses  of 
the  young  men's  characters,  and  had  invested  that 
of  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  antitype  with  a  subtle  charm 
her  husband  had  failed  to  reproduce. 

"  Wild  horses  couldn't  drag  you,  I  suppose," 
Viviette  said  at  last,  "  to  be  jealous  of  either  of  those 
young  men?" 

"  Jealous  ?  No  !  Bella  adores  me,  worships  me. 
Why,  I  remember  when  we  first  kept  house " 

•'  Oh,  John,  that  was  years  and  years  ago !     You 


lit!! 


i 


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\'\ 


I  ill 


\ !« 


142 


ADRIFT. 


have  changed  since  then;  do  you  suppose  she 
hasn't?" 

"  If  you  mean  to  insinuate,  Viviette  Bromley,  that 
I  am  not  as  kind  and  considerate  a  husband  as  there 
is  in  Buffalo,  you  are  mistaken." 

"John,  the  French  say  that  every  woman  has  two 
love-affairs.     Bella  told  me  that  herself." 

"  Then,  of  course,  it's  true." 

"  And  Bella  has  not  yet  had  the  second  one." 

"  Neither  have  you,"  was  the  neat  retort  swallowed 
just  in  time. 

"And  I  should  think  it  might  just  occur  to  you 
that  this  summer,  when  you  only  see  her  once  a 
week,  and  sometimes  not  so  often "  She  hesi- 
tated. 

"Viviette,"  said  the  man,  turning  upon  her  the 
reproachful  gaze  of  wounded  confidence,  "  I  never 
thought  you  would  try  to  make  me  imagine  things 
that  aren't  so."  He  pondered  a  moment.  "  Suppose 
they  are  so,  do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  deny  her 
a  harmless  little  flirtation,  if  that  happens  to  be  the 
one  amusement  she  craves  just  now?  Bella  can 
take  care  of  herself,  I  guess.  And,  anyway,  she'll 
drop  it  in  a  month  or  so,  like  everything  else." 

Viviette  gave  a  low  relieved  laugh.  *'  Then  I've 
not  poisoned  your  mind  against  your  wife?"  she 
asked. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Forrester.  "  It  looks  odd, 
I  know ;  it  looks  like  a  separation ;  but  I'm  con- 
vinced it's  the  best  thing.  If  Bella  wishes  to  leave 
home  for  six  months,  and  if  I'm  willing  to  have  her 
do  so,  then  why  on  earth  shouldn't  she  go  ?" 


ADRIFT.  i^, 

"Why,  indeed?"  echoed  Mrs.  Bromley.  But 
when  he  had  gone  and  she  sat  alone  in  the  dark 
veranda,  she  rejoiced  that  her  departed  husband  had 
never  regarded  her  absences  from  home,  however 
short,  with  such  cheerful  resignation. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

As  some  young  lai  ^Hing  child  may  stand 

Rose-footed  in  the  snowy  sand, 

Nor  dare  for  all  the  realm  of  France 

One  single  further  step  advance, 

The  while  with  dim  "ling  sweep  and  swirl 

The  gentle  wavelets  creep  and  curl 

About  the  tender  timid  feet, 

To  ripple  back  in  murmurs  sweet, — 

So  on  the  brink  of  deadly  sin 
A  soul  shall  shrink  from  plunging  in, — 
Yet  lingers  still,  with  smiling  eyes. 
Where  fell  temptation  darkling  lies. 

Certain  misgivings  which  had  floated,  vague  and 
nebulous,  through  Mrs.  Bromley's  brain,  formulated 
themselves  shortly  after  the  conversation  above  re- 
corded into  a  distinct  anxiety.  Bella's  letters,  written 
on  creamy  paper  of  exquisite  smoothness,  and  sealed 
with  the  dainty  device  of  a  harebell,  gradually  lost 
their  usual  ingenuous  tone;  they  still  breathed  a 
spirit  of  delight,  but  the  specific  causes  of  that  de- 
light were  no  longer  enlarged  upon.     When  Viviette 


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144 


ADRIFT. 


had  received  four  letters  containing  little  else  than 
descriptions  of  scenery  and  reviews  of  books,  her 
anxiety  became  intolerable,  and  she  resolved  if  pos- 
sible to  end  it. 

As  a  consequence,  one  August  morning  she  rang 
the  bell  at  Miss  Forrester's  door.  Maggie,  the  ser- 
vant, ushered  her  into  the  shady  parlor,  and  went  in 
search  of  Mrs.  Forrester.  She  was  found  seated 
?mder  the  pines  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  and  hav- 
ing given  her  companion,  Mr.  Brooks,  the  briefest 
possible  dismissal,  hastened  into  the  house,  and  in  a 
moment  the  two  wonien  were  fondly  embracing. 

"  Oh,  Viviette  !  It's  so  long  since  I've  seen  you  ! 
You're  like  a  spectre  out  of  the  dim  forgotten  past ! 
What  have  you  come  for?  Not  from  pure  love, 
surely?" 

"  Yes,  dear ;  I  came  because  I  fancied  you  needed 
me.     Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me,  BeHa  ?" 

"  To  tell  you  ?  How  could  there  be  any  news  in 
this  seclusion  ?     I'm  trying  to  be  good,  that's  all." 

"  And  don't  you  call  that  news  ?"  smiled  Viviette. 
Then,  still  holding  Bella's  hand,  she  drew  her  to  a 
lounge,  and  the  two  sat  down  side  by  side;  she  gazed 
at  Bella  with  eyes  of  wistful  questioning,  and  sud- 
denly kissed  her  again. 

"  There  are  a  hundred  reasons,  dear  Bella,"  she 
declared,  impressivel)'',"  why  you  should  remain  here 
no  longer;  why  you  should  return  home  with  me 
this  very  afternoon." 

"  Impossible !  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing. 
Didn't  I  burn  my  bridges  behind  me  when  I  left 
those  P.  P.  C.  cards?     Six  months'  absence  is  the 


ADRIFT. 


145 


very  least  that  will  justify  those  cards.  People  would 
laugh  at  me  if  I  came  home  now." 

*' I  wouldn't  mind  their  laughing  so  long  as  they 
do  nothing  worse.  You  may  be  sorry  some  time 
that  you  did  not  brave  a  laugh,  and  so  avoid  being 
sneered  at  and  scorned  and  cut  dead  on  the  street !" 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  come  home  for  ?  Give 
me  one  of  your  hundred  reasons." 

"  Well,  it  is  hinted  that  Mr.  John  Forrester  spends 
too  many  oC  his  evenings  on  a  certain  veranda," 

"  It's  your  veranda,  of  course !  It's  just  like  Jack's 
selfishness  to  make  you  talked  about.  I  wonder  you 
let  him." 

"  And  Bella,  Buffalo  is  the  best  place  in  the  world 
during  the  hot  weather.  Even  at  noon  refreshing 
breezes  sweep  through  the  streets.  And  then,  to- 
wards evening,  to  drive  along  '  The  Front'  by  the 
river " 

"  It's  just  as  cool  here,  Viviette,  and  we  have  the 
same  river  at  the  foot  of  the  garden.  It's  an  earthly 
Paradise  here;  why  do  you  try  to  drag  me  away 
from  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  why,  Bella ;  but  I  feel  that  you 
had  better  come  home  with  me.  I  thought  words 
would  be  given  me  to  say,  to  persuade  you ;  but 
I  can  think  of  none.  I  only  know  that  you  are  in 
danger." 

"  What  has  made  you  think  so  ?"  asked  Bella,  re- 
garding her  friend  quite  calmly. 

"  Your  letters." 

"My  letters?  You  must  see  that  I'm  happy, 
Viviette,  from  every  word  I  have  written,  from  the 
G       k  13 


146 


ADRIFT. 


very  expression  of  my  face.  Do  you  grudge  me 
my  happiness  ?" 

"  Dear  Bella,  no ;  I  was  as  glad  of  it  at  first  as  if 
some  good  fortune  had  befallen  myself.  But  lately 
you  have  not  been  frank  and  open  with  me.  When 
I  read  your  letters  it  seems  as  if  your  heart  was  shut 
out  of  them  and  barred  away  from  me.  I  want  your 
confidence,  Bella." 

"  You  have  always  possessed  it,  and  never  more 
so  than  now ;  only  there  is  nothing  to  tell." 

"  Yet  I  constantly  perceive  that  you  are  keeping 
back  something  from  me.  At  first  you  used  to 
write  fully  of  your  walks  and  talks  with  this  Mr. 
Brooks ;  now  you  never  mention  his  name.  Why 
is  it?" 

Bella  changed  color  twice  before  she  answered ; 
she  was  pale  when  she  said  at  last,  in  a  whisper, — 

"  Nothing  has  happened  but  trifles,  and  yet  they 
seemed  too  important  to  put  on  paper." 

Mrs.  Bromley  started.  "  Then  I  have  come  too 
late !"  she  said.  The  tears  rose  to  her  eyes,  and  she 
pressed  her  handkerchief  to  them. 

"Of  what  do  you  accuse  me  ?"  asked  Bella,  quietly. 

"  Don't  say  accuse,  Bella.  I  only  warn  you  to 
cease  flirting  with  Mr.  Brooks." 

"  Viviette,  you  grieve,  you  anger  me  !  How  dare 
you  apply  such  a  word  to  my  conduct  ?" 

"  It's  an  ugly,  coarse,  vulgar  word,  I  admit,  but 
there  seems  to  be  no  other." 

"  He  says  things  to  please  me,  and  I  say  things  to 
please  him,  and  that's  all  there  is  of  it." 

"And  pray  what  do  you  call  that  but  flirting? 


ADRIFT. 


H7 


The  fact  that  you  are  a  married  woman  makes  it 
unchangeably  and  forever  wrong  for  you  to  take 
pleasure  in  such  conversation." 

"  That's  a  sterner  code  of  morals  than  you  your- 
self live  up  to,  Viviette,"  retorted  Bella. 

"  I  might  answer,"  said  Mrs.  Bromley,  "  that  I  am 
not  a  wife,  but  a  widow.  Bella,  do  you  no  longer 
love  John  ?" 

"  Love,  love !  you  seem  to  think  of  nothing  else, 
Viviette.  Let  me  tell  you,  when  one  has  been  mar- 
ried eight  years  one  regards  one's  husband  as  an  ac- 
quaintance, a  friend,  an  enemy, — never  as  a  lover." 

"  When  you  say '  one  has'  and  *  one  does,*  I  always 
know  you  have  been  reading  French." 

"  Reading, — yes,  that's  just  it.  We  never  talk 
about  anything  but  books.  He  has  read  everything 
I  ever  heard  of;  he  has  read  Lecky's  '  History  of 
Morals'  all  through." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  have  done  him  much  good." 

"  And  he  likes  being  with  me " 

"  Oh,  of  course  Mr.  Brooks  knows  enough  to  ad- 
mire a  pretty  woman !" 

"  Thanks,  dear.  He  is  the  only  person  who  takes 
me  for  all  in  all  and  is  content  with  me.  You  and 
Jack  are  always  finding  fault  and  begging  me  to 
have  a  little  energy,  a  little  self-reliance,  a  little 
this  or  that.  But  Stephen  Brooks !  He  thinks  me 
perfect  just  as  I  am."  She  paused,  blushing  and 
smiling ;  it  was  the  other's  turn  to  be  pale. 

"  My  poor  girl !  that  you  should  think,  should 
speak  of  him  so !"  Viviette  murmured, 

"All  women  love  flattery;  you  knew  it,  Viviette; 


Mi 


m 


] 


4 1 


t 

•!i 

{!    -J 

I'  ■' 

if 


m 


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■i 


B^ 


148 


ADRIFT, 


you  are  pleased  when  my  husband  gazes  at  you  with 
that  blissful,  contented  air,  and  praises  your  children, 
and  talks  of  the  blessed  repose  of  your  home.  Why 
should  you  quarrel  with  Mr.  Brooks  because  he  finds 
me — as  John  finds  you — a  charming  companion  ?" 

Mrs.  Bromley,  thus  thrown  on  the  defensive,  hesi- 
tated. "If  that  were  all,"  she  said,  after  a  moment, 
"  I  should  not  mind.  But,  oh,  Bella !  Perhaps  you 
are  more  charming  than  you  think ;  perhaps  it  will 
end  by  his  falling  in  love  with  you ;  or,  worse  still, 
by  the  contrary  event." 

"  I  wish  one  of  those  two  most  unlikely  things 
would  happen,"  said  Bella,  with  a  sigh.  *'  Oh,  to  go 
back  to  the  days  when  I  first  knew  Jack  !  How  full 
the  world  was  of  hope  and  song  and  glory !  But 
that's   impossible;  I   shall  never  care  for  any   one 


agam. 


"  Even  if  you  could,  it  wouldn't  be  like  that  first 
love,"  observed  Viviette. 

"  No,"  admitted  Bella.  "  The  moral  of  the  whole 
affair  is  that  an  idle  brain  is  Satan's  workshop ;  if  I 
had  any  object  in  life ;  if  I  were  interested  in  bac- 
teria, or  saving  up  money  to  buy  a  sealskin  sacque, 
or  learning  to  walk  the  tight- rope,  I  should  not  care 
a  button  what  Mr.  Brooks  reads  or  does  not  read." 

"  Oh,  Bella !  Don't  make  a  jest  of  it !"  implored 
Viviette.  She  recognized  that  no  errand  could  have 
failed  of  its  object  more  completely  than  hers  had 
done,  and  she  felt  an  excess  of  veneration  for 
Luther,  Wiclif,  and  other  great  reformers ;  it  was 
not,  after  all,  an  easy  thing  to  accomplish  a  mission. 
Before  she  could  put  forward  any  further  considera- 


ADRIFT. 


149 


tions  the  door  opened,  and  Diana  entered  and 
greeted  the  visitor  cordially.  She  had  dismissed 
the  carriage  which  brought  Viviette  from  the  vil- 
lage, and  insisted  upon  her  remaining  to  luncheon. 

They  partook  of  that  refection,  with  its  cool  green 
salad,  pale  coral-red  tomatoes,  great  shining  black- 
berries, and  crystal  pitcher  full  of  yellow  cream,  and 
after  a  repose  of  an  hour  or  so  Bella  and  Viviette 
seated  themselves  in  Mr.  Forrester's  phaeton,  and 
drove  to  the  village. 

Just  as  they  passed  the  post-oflfice  Stephen  Brooks, 
who  had  been  mailing  some  manuscripts,  came  out 
of  the  building.  He  lifted  his  hat,  and  Bella  returned 
the  salute,  informing  her  friend  in  the  briefest  brace 
of  syllables  that  this  was  the  gentleman  they  had 
been  discussing.  Something  in  her  expression  as 
she  drove  leisurely  onward  made  Viviette  see  that 
all  her  remonstrances  might  as  well  have  been  ad- 
dressed to  the  wind. 

"  He  must  have  walked  from  home,"  remarked 
Bella,  as  they  stopped  at  the  depot.  "  How  fortunate 
that  I  am  here  to  drive  him  back !" 

"  I  have  half  a  mind  to  prevent  it  by  going  back 
with  you  myself,"  said  Viviette. 

"  Would  you  condemn  poor  John  to  a  desolate 
evening  ?"  asked  Bella,  demurely. 

They  went  out  to  the  train,  kissed  each  other  with 
much  tenderness,  and  presently  Mrs.  Bromley  was 
borne  away  towards  Buffalo,  her  emotions  resembling 
those  of  a  mother  forced  to  leave  her  child  pefishing 
in  a  burning  building. 

While  Bella  and  her  friend  were   driving,  while 

13* 


f' 


I  1 

mm 


■,'u 


K 


r 


T 


\h 


m 
1 


ISO 


ADRIFT, 


11 


Stephen  Brooks  was  mailing  his  papers,  while,  in 
short,  all  the  commonplace,  every-day  business  of 
life  was  going  on,  Diana  Forrester  was  listening  to  a 
declaration  the  like  of  which  had  never  astonished 
her  ears.  She  was  seated  in  her  parlor ;  the  coolest 
gray  shadows  and  half-tints  lay  in  the  folds  of  her 
white  dress;  she  was  arranging  some  green  moss 
and  ferns  about  a  block  of  glittering  ice  in  the  centre 
of  a  glass  salver, — a  transient  but  refrigerant  decora- 
tion,— while  Jerome  Harvey,  seated  opposite  her, 
announced  in  the  fervid  language  usually  employed 
on  such  occasions,  that  he  loved  her  and  wished  to 
make  her  his  wife.  At  the  first  appreciable  pause 
Diana  declined  the  honor,  but  the  young  man, 
nothing  daunted,  proceeded  to  urge  his  suit  all  over 
again,  only  to  be  once  more  rejected.  This  process 
had  been  repeated  several  times  when  Diana  re- 
marked, with  a  touch  of  impatience, — 

"  I  am  surprised  that  you  should  have  forgotten ; 
I  told  you  at  the  very  outset  of  our  acquaintance 
that  I  did  not  intend  to  marry." 

"  Neither  did  I,"  said  Jerome,  "  and  until  I  met 
you  it  required  no  effort  to  keep  to  that  intention. 
But  now  a  feeling  has  taken  possession  of  me  which 
makes  it  supremely,  divinely  right  for  me  to  i::arry 
you, — the  only  right  and  unavoidable  thing  in  the 
world." 

Diana  daintily  adjusted  the  last  fern  to  her  satis- 
faction, rose,  and  set  the  little  green  oasis  upon  an 
adjacent  table.  "  I  see  no  reason,"  she  said,  calmly, 
resuming  her  seat,  "  why  you  should  expect  me  to 
share  your  feeling." 


ADRIFT. 


151 


"  Oh,  if  you  do  not  care  for  me,"  said  Jerome,  the 
buoyant  ring  of  his  voice  somewhat  dashed,  "  of 
course  that  is  the  end  of  it  all ! — No,  it's  not  the  end, 
it's  only  the  beginning.  I  shall  find  a  way  to  make 
you  care  for  me." 

Diana  smiled  incredulously.  "  Do  you  think  so  ?" 
she  asked.    "  I  cannot  imagine  such  a  state  of  feeling." 

"  It's  very  easily  realized,  I  assure  you,"  Jerome 
returned,  also  smiling.  He  felt  a  not  unnatural  con- 
fidence that,  his  own  objections  to  marriage  being 
overruled,  the  lady's  also  would  prove  susceptible 
of  nullification. 

"  Ah,  well !"  said  Diana,  carelessly.  "  I  neither 
intend  to  make  any  effort  in  that  direction  myself, 
nor  shall  I  allow  you  to  do  so.  I  really  think  you 
had  better  go  back  to  New  York." 

She  spoke  with  an  absence  of  coquetry  and  em- 
barrassment for  which  neither  Jerome's  reading 
nor  observation  furnished  any  precedent.  He  was 
amazed  that  all  he  had  said  had  produced  absolutely 
no  impression ;  he  knew  not  how  to  climb  or  under- 
mine or  otherwise  encounter  this  blank  wall  of  in- 
difference; he  seemed  to  himself  bereft  of  ingenuity, 
and  felt  that  he  was  cutting  a  very  poor  figure.  In 
a  moment,  however,  his  native  courage  reasserted 
itself. 

"  It  shall  be  my  task  to  conquer  this  opposition," 
he  said.  "  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise.  I  would 
not  have  you  one  whit  less  coy  and  shrinking " 

Diana  stared,  then  laughed.  "  I  don't  think  those 
adjectives  describe  my  attitude  towards  you  very 
well,"  she  said. 


jr:.-i 


■l.SI 

I 


13 


I     I' 


mi. 
I 


11 

II 


152 


ADRIFT. 


"  I  am  not  afraid  of  failure,"  said  Jerome.  "  I 
shall  be  able  to  melt  your  coldness  and  reserve  just 
as  the  ice  in  this  crystal  dish  is  melting." 

"It  is  melting,  isn't  it?"  said  Diana,  with  solici- 
tude. "  And  I  so  wanted  it  to  last  till  Bella  reached 
home.    There !  I  hear  wheels  now ;  it  is  the  phaeton." 

"  Yes ;  Mrs.  Forrester  has  picked  up  Brooks  on 
the  way,"  said  Jerome,  looking  out.  He  recognized 
with  surprise  that  the  interruption  was  not  unwel- 
come to  him.  "  They  are  coming  in.  You  do  not 
dismiss  me  altogether?"  he  said,  hurriedly.  "  I  may 
speak  to  you  again  ?" 

Diana  considered ;  his  avowals  had  a  piquant  and 
unwonted  flavor  which  she  was  nothing  loath  to 
taste  again ;  she  would  not  say  yes,  but  she  did  not 
say  no;  and  Jerome  had  just  time  to  thank  her  for 
this  silent  permission,  when  the  others  entered. 

"  We  faint,  Diana,  we  expire  with  heat  and  thirst," 
said  Bella,  leading  the  way  into  the  dining-room. 
On  the  sideboard  stood  a  large  silver  pitcher  gemmed 
with  moisture ;  the  ice  tinkled  musically  against  the 
lip  as  Stephen  raised  it. 

"  What  pretty  glasses !"  he  remarked,  inspecting 
Diana's  many-tinted  tumblers. 

"  I  choose  the  amber  one, — yellow  is  becoming  to 
me,"  said  Bella. 

"  And  I  the  ruby,  because  it  makes  the  water  look 
like  wine,"  said  Stephen. 

They  drank  each  other's  health  in  the  pure  liquid, 
and  then,  Stephen  declaring  himself  much  refreshed, 
the  young  men  took  their  departure  in  the  phaeton. 

"  Diana !"  called  Bella,  yet. lingering  in  the  dining- 


ADRIFT. 


153 


> 


room.     "  May  I  take  one  of  these  tumblers  up-stairs 
to  put  my  flowers  in  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  colored  glass  is  vulgar,  and  it's  going 
out  of  style,  and  I  don't  care  how  soon  mine  is  all 
broken,"  answered  Diana;  and  after  much  delibera- 
tion Bella  selected  one  and  carried  it  off  to  her  room. 
She  filled  it  with  water  and  flowers,  and  placed  it  on 
her  desk;  a  single  ray  ct  late  sunlight  penetrated 
the  shutter  and  striking  through  the  glass  fell  in  a 
rosy  glow  upon  the  sheets  of  letter-paper.  Bella  felt 
that  she  was  justified  in  her  choice. 

"  Yes,  it  is  prettier  than  blue,"  she  averred. 

Meanwhile,  Jerome  had  turned  to  Brooks  with  a 
meek  inquiry ;  the  latter's  amative  experiences  for 
the  first  time  were  of  value  in  his  friend's  eyes. 

"  Stephen,"  he  asked,  humbly,  "  how  is  it  you 
know  when  a  girl  is  in  love  with  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  there  are  ever  so  many  signs,"  said  Stephen, 
airily.  "  She  will  not  meet  your  eyes,  for  one  thing ; 
if  a  woman  looks  straight  at  you  she  doesn't  care  for 
you.     That's  infallible." 

Jerome  was  silent,  recalling  the  fact  that  Diana's 
brown  eyes  had  not  once  sought  the  floor  during 
their  interview. 

"  And  then,"  pursued  Stephen,  with  interest,  being 
launched  on  a  subject  which  he  felt  he  could  treat 
with  eloquence,  "you  may  know  by  her  voice: 
though  it  be  ordinarily  trumpet-clear,  it  softens,  '  it 
hath  a  dying  fall,'  when  she  converses  with  the  man 
she  loves." 

Diana's  quiet  voice  had  certainly  not  been  any 
more  quiet  than  usual. 


in 


II 


..  '''if 


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.)! 


Fl' 


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II 


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M 


154  ADRIFT. 

"  Or  you  may  know Great  Scott !    Jerome, 

you  are  not  really  struck  with  Miss  Forrester?  I 
thought  it  was  only  the  sort  of  idle  flirtation  in  which 
every  man  gets  entangled  during  a  summer  holiday. 
You  don't  mean  to  say  you  would  really  marry  her  ?" 

"  I  would — I  may  say  I  will !" 

"  Why,  you  must  be  mad !  You  cannot  ignore 
the  probability  that  you  and  she  come  within  the 
proscribed  limits  of  consanguinity.  You  are  Marcy 
Forrester's  son;  suppose  she  turns  out  to  be  his 
daughter  ?" 

"  It  cannot  be  so !"  cried  Jerome.  "  Of  course 
the  thought  has  occurred  to  me, — I  should  have  been 
an  idiot  if  it  had  not, — but  I  know  it  is  not  so. 
Something  would  have  warned  me,  some  subtle  in- 
tuition  " 

"Yes;  you  are  just  the  one  to  be  warned  by  a 
subtle  intuition !"  said  Stephen.  "  I  will  bet  you 
anything  you  like  that  Diana  Forrester  is  your  half- 
sister." 

**  I  will  not  think  so  for  an  instant,"  said  Jerome. 
"  Of  course  I  must  learn  the  truth.  I  have  already 
spoken  to  Mr.  Forrester  on  the  subject.  But  it 
seems  brutal  to  stand  threatening  and  reviling  over 
that  quivering  heap  of  nerves." 

"  Should  think  you'd  enjoy  it." 

"  Especially  since  his  mouth  is  closer  locked  every 
time  I  address  him.  But  I  can  endure  it  no  longer; 
I  shall  make  a  mighty  effort  to  extract  the  truth." 

"  I  wish  you  success  !"  said  Stephen,  reining  in  the 
horse  before  Marcy  Forrester's  door.  Philippe  came 
out  to  meet  them;  he  had  some  weeks  before  dis- 


ADRIFT, 


155 


carded  the  French  garments,  and  now  wore  what  he 
liked.  As  he  advanced,  the  young  men  could  not 
fail  to  perceive  that  his  face  evinced  subdued  yet 
unmistakable  satisfaction." 

"  What's  the  good  news  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Dr.  Tevan  v/as  here  for  an  hour,  sorr;  an'  whin 
he  left  he  sez  to  me,  '  Yer  masther  '11  niver  set  fut 
to  flure  ag'in ;  an'  what's  more,  Siptimber  '11  cee  the 
lasht  av  him  !'  " 


li 


k 


-t 


ji 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


"  Demand  me  nothing :  what  you  know,  you  know, — 
From  this  time  forth  I  never  will  speak  word." 

Shakespeare. 

During  the  few  days  that  remained  cf  August  and 
throughout  the  greater  part  of  September,  Marcy 
Forrester's  conduct  was  simply  maddening.  He  was 
deprived  of  the  faculty  of  locomotion,  and  was  no 
longer  able  to  read,  to  hear  anything  read,  or  to  add 
the  last  finishing  touch  to  his  Memoirs,  now  nearly 
completed.  Yet  his  malignity  suffered  no  diminu- 
tion, nay,  rather  seemed  to  flourish  the  higher  as  his 
other  powers  declined.  He  lay  propped  up  among 
his  pillows,  his  black  eyes,  bright  and  cunning  as 
a  rat's,  following  the  movements  of  the  hapless 
wretches  doomed  by  interest  or  duty  to  attend  upon 
him.  For  days  at  a  time  he  refused  to  speak,  and 
while  it  was  a  relief  to  have  his  rancorous  and 
biting  utterance  checked,  Jerome  trembled  with  ap- 


^1 


!' 
IP 


11 


II' 


It 


156  ADRIFT, 

prehension  lest  he  should  choose  never  to  break 
his  silence,  and  so  should  die  with  the  secret  of 
Diana's  birth  untold.  All  the  fear,  shame,  anxiety, 
the  youn<T  man  had  felt  on  his  own  account  were 
now  transferred  to  Diana's,  and  he  besieged  his  father 
with  the  humblest  entreaty  and  the  sternest  expos- 
tulation. 

It  was  quite  in  vain.     The  old  man  was  keenly 

mortified  by  the  recollection  of  the  momenta ly  soft- 
ness to  which  he  had  given  way  when  he  told  jorome 
his  mother's  story.  He  felt  it  to  be  totally  unac- 
countable and  inconsistent  with  his  character,  and 
he  resolved  upon  redeeming  his  pretensions  to  utter 
hardness  of  heart. 

"  Tell  me,  so  that  you  may  die  in  peace,"  implored 
Jerome,  one  morning  which  they  had  all  thought  the 
sick  man  would  never  see. 

"So  that  "ou  may  live  in  peace,  you  mean,"  Marcy 
retorted.  *•  Can  you  doubt  that  she  is  your  sister  ? 
Can  you  not  trace  in  both  your  characters,"  he  went 
on,  with  the  greatest  difficulty, "the  same  veneration 
for  truth,  the  same  lofty  ideals,  the  high,  pure,  knightly 
nature  that  I  possess  ?" 

"  You  are  only  jesting,"  said  Jerome.  "  I  do  not 
ask  your  own  history, — I  will  not  stir  the  foul  depths 
of  that, — but  I  must  know  about  Dia  ^a.  Will  you 
not  do  this  one  kindness  for  the  son  of  the  woman 
whose  money  has  supported  you  in  luxury  these 
many  years  ?" 

The  memory  of  the  shy,  neglected  girl  who  had 
given  her  life  and  fortune  into  his  hands  had  always 
been  hateful  to  Marcy  Forrester,  and  the  mention  of 


ADRIFT. 


He 


her  now  roused  him  to  a  white-heat  of  fury, 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"  As  God  is  my  witness,  I  speak  truth  I"  he  cried. 
"  Diana  is  my  daughter.  Her  mother  was  the  vilest 
wretch  I  ever  knew.  You  are  brother  and  sister. 
My  curse  upon  you  both !" 

*  He  dro[)ped  back  exhausted,  and  the  fury  in  his 
face  died  away,  to  be  succeeded  by  a  malign  triumph. 
At  this  moment  Diana  came  through  the  open  door; 
she  had  been  up  all  night,  like  all  the  others,  and  was 
looking  pale  and  tired.  A  new  softness  grew  in  her 
face  as  she  advanced  to  Jerome. 

"  I  heard  it  all,"  she  said,  and  he  had  never  thought 
there  could  be  such  a  tremor,  such  a  ripple  of  emo- 
tion in  her  voice.  "  I  heard  it,"  she  repeated,  "  and  I 
think — Jerome!  brother! — I  think  it  must  be  true." 

"  It  is  not  true  !"  cried  Jerome,  violently.  "  God 
could  not  be  so  cruel !"  In  the  midst  of  his  rage 
and  disappointment  he  felt  a  fresh  quiver  of  pain  at 
her  ready  acceptance  of  their  altered  relation. 

"  I  refuse  to  doubt  it,"  said  Diana,  gently.  "  I 
have  needed  some  one  like  you,  oh,  so  many  times ! 
Let  it  be  as  if  we  met  this  moment  for  the  first  time!" 
She  slipped  her  hands  into  his  and  clasped  them 
close,  while  Jerome  stood  in  a  wretched  silence. 

"Go  on,  go  on!"  chuckled  the  old  man,  feebly. 
"I  remember  something  like  this  in  a  French  play!" 

"You  will  forget  those  other  feelings  in  a  little 
while,"  said    Diana.     "  I  will   help   you.     We   can 

be  very  happy  together;  we  can  travel "     She 

paused,  shrinking  and  blushing  before  the   unsub- 
dued fire  in  the  young  man's  eyes.     The  slow  un- 

14 


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158 


ADRIFT. 


ready  color  added  the  last  touch  of  perfection  to  her, 
Jerome  thought. 

"  Oh !"  cried  the  poor  fellow,"  do  you  think  that 
being  kinder  and  gentler  and  more  womanly  than 
you  ever  were  before  is  the  way  to  make  me  forget?" 
He  flung  away  her  hands  and  turned  to  Marcy.  "  I 
do  not  believe  one  word  you  have  said.  You  shall 
not  Jare  to  die  until  I  have  learned  the  truth !" 
Fearful  that  he  should  altogether  lose  control  of 
himself,  he  dashed  out  of  the  room,  down  the  stairs, 
and  into  the  open  air. 

"  Diana,"  drawled  the  old  man,  "  reach  me  that 
atropia  on  the  mantel-shelf  It  would  be  a  good  joke 
to  kill  myself  before  he  gets  back.  What!  You 
won't?  Away  with  you,  then  !"  And  Diana,  clap- 
ping her  hands  to  her  ears,  fled  before  a  storm  of 
opprobrious  epithets  and  oaths. 

Stephen,  seeing  his  friend  rush  by,  hatless,  and 
with  a  mien  suggestive  of  suicide,  followed  leisurely, 
and  overtook  him  at  a  point  half-way  between  the 
two  houses,  where,  under  the  belt  of  pines  that  skirted 
the  bank,  stood  a  small  summer-house.  Stephen  had 
dubbed  it  "  The  Lover's  Rest,"  because  none  but 
lovers  could  be  oblivious  of  the  gnarled  and  knotty 
inequalities  its  rustic  seats  presented  to  back  and 
shoulders.  He  did  not  tempt  their  afflictive  powers, 
but  seated  himself  on  the  f-.reshold,  while  Jerome 
paced  up  and  down  the  walk  outside,  with  a  counte- 
nance on  which  was  depicted  a  variety  of  gloomy 
emotions. 

"  Stephen,  she  is  my  sister,  after  all !"  he  burst  out 
in  a  piteous  tone.     "  And  I  love  her,  Stephen  ;  you, 


t 


ADRIFT. 


159 


who  have  frittered  away  your  heart  in  so  many  flirta- 
tions, cannot  imagine,  cannot  dream  how  I  love 
her!" 

"  Yes,"  mused  Stephen,  "  there  must  be  a  certain 
force  in  a  passion  that  comes  as  late  as  yours.  Fancy 
having  one's  first  love  at  thirty !" 

"  I've  kept  quiet  about  it ;  I've  not  said  much ;  but 
it  has  grown  with  every  day  of  this  summer.  She  is 
so  sweet,  Stephen,  so  fine  and  dainty  in  all  her  ways. 
Such  little,  little  hands !  And  just  now,  when  she 
put  them  into  mine,  I  could  not  even  press  them !" 

'"  And  she's  so  sympathetic,  so  full  of  girlish  ten- 
derness, so  easily  swayed  by  your  mood,  so  full  of 
smiles,  tears,  sighs,  blushes,  all  enticing  wiles  and 
witcheries !"  chimed  in  Stephen,  who  privately  con- 
sidered Miss  Forrester  a  combination  of  all  the 
qualities  detestable  in  woman. 

Jerome  stared,  then  honestly  accepted  the  ironic 
eulogy.  "  Yes  ;  you  cannot  praise  her  too  highly," 
he  said.  "  Oh,  Stephen,  it  cannot  be  true !  She  loves 
me,  I  am  sure  of  it.  If  you  had  seen  her  turn  to  me 
and  clasp  my  hands,  telling  me  she  had  often  longed 
for  some  one  like  me  !" 

"  Did  she,  indeed  ?"  asked  Stephen,  with  animation. 
It  was  in  keeping  with  Diana's  general  insensibility 
that  she  should  find  nothing  embarrassing  in  the 
situation ;  but  he  had  not  supposed  her  capable  of 
the  sisterly  regard  Jerome  described. 

"  And  then,  when  I  rejected  her  and  would  have 
none  of  her  as  a  sister,  she  looked  so  grieved.  It's 
horrible,  Stephen !  If  I  could  once  know  it  irrev- 
ocably true,  I  would  give  it  up.     But  I — we — can 


WSA 


?.i 


i6o 


ADRIFT, 


never  know.  We  may  be  forbidden  to  love,  or  we 
may  be  free  as  air ;  the  bare  possibility  that  we  are 
related  will  suffice  to  keep  us  apart." 

Stephen  for  a  moment  contemplated  offering  to 
invent  a  pedigree  and  forge  a  marriage  certificate 
that  should  resolve  all  difficulties ;  but  a  glance  at 
Harvey,  with  his  troubled  eyes  and  brow  contracted 
in  a  frown  of  pain,  restrained  him.  He,  too,  frowned 
as  he  said, — 

"  It's  incredible,  the  brood  of  evils  that  can  spring 
from  one  man's  sin  or  selfishness !  evils  innumerable, 
relentless,  unending  as  Time  itself  The  troubles 
that  beset  you  now  probably  represent  the  wrong- 
doing of  one  single  year.  If  such  seed  of  insincer- 
ity, falsehood,  double-dealing,  was  sown  in  every  year 
of  this  man's  life,  what  myriad  crops  of  sorrows  stand 
ready  for  the  reaping  now  !"  He  was  thinking  that 
but  for  Marcy  Forrester's  shirking  of  responsibility 
thirty  years  ago  he  himself  would  not  now  be  involved 
in  certain  hazardous  if  agreeable  complications. 

"  Can  any  one  man  have  effected  so  much  good?" 
asked  Jerome,  in  a  temporary  lapse  of  faith. 

"  No,"  said  Stephen,  promptly.  "  Evil  has  thrice 
the  reproductive  power  of  good.  I  tell  you,  Harvey, 
that  old  wretch  lying  there  preaches  a  sermon, — a 
stronger  one  than  my  father  ever  preached." 

"  You  don't  believe  it, — my  loving  her  so !"  Jerome 
burst  forth  again,  after  a  pause.  "  I  don't  blame 
you  ;  I  can't  understand  it  myself.  I  was  always  so 
calm  and  collected ;  I've  looked  at  girls  and  said  to 
myself,  '  Not  pretty  enough  ;  not  gentle,  not  thought- 
ful enough,  for  me  1'  " 


ADRIFT. 


l6l 


"  Never  felt  just  that  way  myself,"  observed 
Stephen.  "  Each  one  has  always  been  good  enough 
for  me — for  a  time." 

"  But  now, — why,  I  hardly  know  whether  or  not 
she  is  pretty  at  all.  It  doesn't  make  the  least  dif- 
ference about  any  of  those  things.  She  is  Diana ; 
she  is  the  only  woman  on  earth  for  me !"  Jerome 
uttered  each  succeeding  truism  as  if  it  were  an  as- 
tounding revelation. 

Brooks  regarded  his  friend  with  an  expression 
half  tender,  half  sneering.  Centuries  away  seemed 
the  brief  season  of  his  boyhood  when  these  senti- 
ments had  been  for  the  first  time  inspired  in  his 
breast  by  some  maiden  whose  very  name  he  had 
now  forgotten. 

"  Yet  I  can  see  how  it  has  all  come  about,"  pur- 
sued Jerome.  "  All  my  life  I  have  wished  for  kin- 
dred, for  a  mother  and  sisters  of  my  own;  your 
mother  was  kindness  itself  to  me,  but  nobody  knows 
the  value  of  ties  of  blood  as  orphans  and  aliens  do ; 
and  since  I  know  I  can  never  find  them " 

"  You  seek  a  substitute ;  your  affection  clings, 
vine-like,  to  the  first  object  it  encounters,"  said 
Stephen ;  and  now  the  sneer  had  wholly  obscured 
the  tenderness  in  his  face.  "  It's  the  old  inevitable 
attraction  of  propinquity ;  the  nearest  is  ever  the 
dearest;  Adam  would  have  loved  Pallas  Athene  in- 
stead of  Eve  if  she  had  happened  to  come  in  his 
way.  You  turn  to  Miss  Forrester;  John  Forrester, 
I  wager,  begins  to  think  more  than  he  ought  of  the 
pretty  widow  who  came  down  here  the  other  day ; 
and  I "     He  stopped  abruptly. 


ii 


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ADRIFT. 


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Jerome  did  not  press  him  to  continue  these  pro- 
found observations.  "  It's  as  if  I  had  been  waiting 
for  her,  longing  for  her,  ever  since  I  was  born,"  he 
went  on.  "  She  refused  me,  of  course ;  I  expected 
that,  for  she's  not  a  girl  to  give  up  her  heart  to  any 
man  on  a  three  months'  acquaintance.  I  liked  her 
refusing  me;  she  needed  time  to  think  it  over;  it 
was  all  coming  right;  but  now," — he  paused,  and 
stood  motionless,  with  bowed  head  and  an  air  of  the 
deepest  dejection, — now,  things  have  gone  all  wrong, 
blindly,  madly  wrong !" 

"  And  *  chaos  is  come  again,' "  said  Stephen, 
gently.  He  recalled  a  conversation  held  on  the 
Third  Sister  Island  when  the  by -gone  summer  was 
in  its  first  youth.  Surely  Jerome  Harvey  was  in  the 
rapids  ncv/ ! 

Marcy  Forrester,  left  alone,  meditated  a  few  mo- 
ments. '*  I  thought  I  could  hate  no  one  as  I  hate 
that  white  stone  Diana,"  he  said,  inwardly.  "  But 
my  son, — detestable  prig  ! — I  execrate,  I  abhor  him  ! 
To  think  that  in  this  last  hour  of  decrepitude  and 
death  I  can  still  thwart  and  harry  and  torment  them  !" 
A  smile  disfigured  his  face.  "  It  will  probably  kill 
me  outright,"  he  mused.  "  But  what  of  that  ?  I 
shall  at  least  die  in  the  harness."  He  rang  the  bell, 
and  as  the  servant  entered,  "  John  !"  he  said, — "  yes, 
you're  Philippe  no  longer,  I'm  done  with  affectations, 
—help  me  to  dress." 

And  John,  who  would  scarcely  have  been  more 
surprised  if  the  very  dead  had  walked,  assisted  him 
to  rise  and  to  put  a  few  garments  on  his  attenuated 
frame. 


i 


ADRIFT. 


163 


"  Has  Mrs.  Forrester  gone  home  ?"  asked  the  old 
man ;  his  very  voice  had  attained  new  strength,  and 
no  longer  quavered  as  it  had  done  of  late. 

"No,  sorr;  she  an'  Miss  Diana  is  lyin'  down  in 
wan  of  the  shpare  rooms.  They're  waitin'  to  hear 
what  the  docthor  says.  An'  her  husband  is  comin' 
from  Buffalo  on  the  nixt  train.  There's  no  sinse  in 
yer  gittin*  up  like  this,  Mr.  Forresther;  ye're  ex- 
pected to  die  before  night." 

"  I  expect  it  myself,"  said  Marcy,  cheerfully,  "  and 
a  welcome  change  it  will  be  from  this  sloth's  life. 
Go  and  tell  Mrs.  Forrester  to  come  here;  but  don't 
let  the  other  one  hear  you." 

The  man  left  the  room.  Marcy  walked  or  rather 
tottered  to  the  cabinet  where  Jerome  had  found  the 
memorials  of  his  mother.  He  unlocked  the  cabinet, 
took  from  it  a  small  flat  letter-case  of  metal,  which 
he  put  in  his  coat-pocket,  and  was  about  to  turn 
away  when  a  golden  gleam  caught  his  eye,  and  he 
drew  forth  from  a  corner  of  the  cabinet  a  ring  of 
quaint  design,  lit  with  a  large  yellow  topaz.  He 
looked  at  it  with  a  smile  of  pleased  remembrance 
and  slipped  it  on  his  finger. 

At  that  moment  Bella  entered  the  room ;  she 
wore  a  wrapper  of  white  wool,  and,  as  usual,  the 
amber  beads  encircled  her  neck;  a  long  silver  pin, 
shaped  like  Neptune's  trident,  was  thrust  through 
the  loose  masses  of  her  brown  hair.  Her  eyes  were 
heavy  and  her  cheeks  pale  with  watching;  but  a 
divine  tenderness  illumined  her  face.  Her  Iieart  was 
sore  almost  to  bleeding  for  this  old  man  who  was 
hurrying  to  his  grave  unloving  and  unloved. 


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Ill 

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164 


ADRIFT. 


'  «.. 


"  Dea:  Uncle  Marcy,  you  will  tire  yourself  out !" 
she  remonstrated.     "  Please  go  back  to  bed  1" 

"  Give  me  your  arm, — and  yours,  John,"  was  his 
answer.  "  Now,  down-stairs, — I  am  going  out  into 
the  garden." 

Slowly  they  descended.  When  they  reached  the 
lower  floor  Bella  begged  him  to  pause  awhile. 

"  I'll  rest  to-morrow  well  enough,"  he  said,  with  a 
cackling  laugh,  and  it  was  not  until  they  had  trav- 
ersed the  hall,  the  rear  veranda,  and  the  garden,  and 
had  almost  reached  the  belt  of  pines,  that  he  began 
to  falter  and  consented  to  rest  a  moment  on  a  lawn 
settee. 

•'  'Tis  the  lightening  before  death,"  John  had  said 
when  he  sun:moned  Bella,  and  she  too  recognized 
the  wondrous  brief  revival  of  expiring  forces  that 
sometimes  comes  before  their  final  extinction. 

"  I  couldn't  have  done  it,  Bella,"  he  said,  as  if  in 
answer  to  her  thought,  "  but  for  this  ring.  A  half- 
dead  Malay  gave  it  me  twenty  years  ago  in  ex- 
change for  some  opium;  he  said  it  was  a  talisman, 
and  would  bring  strength  and  speedy  death  to  who- 
ever wore  it." 

"  Of  course  that  can't  be  true,  Uncle  Marcy,"  said 
Bella,  gently. 

"I  don't  know;  I've  never  dared  to  put  it  on 
till  now.  Since  you're  so  brave,  you  may  wear  it 
after  me.  It  has  given  me  strength ;  if  it  will  only 
last !" 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  to  do  ?"  asked  Bella.  She 
knew  that  his  purpose  must  be  vindictive,  but  she 
could  rot  guess  its  direction;  she  feared  he  meant 


^ 


ADRIFT. 


.65 


to  precipitate  himself  over  the  bank  before  her  eyes. 
She  looked  anxiously  round  for  the  young  men,  but 
they  were  not  in  sigiit. 

"  If  it  will  only  last !"  lie  repeated.  He  leaned 
heavily  against  John  and  breathed  rather  quickly  for 
a  {t.\s  moments,  while  he  waited  for  a  fresh  accession 
of  vital  energy.  At  last,  with  aid,  he  rose,  and 
walked,  more  slowly  than  before,  to  the  pines  and 
under  them,  till  the  three  stood  on  the  very  verge  of 
the  chasm.  Then  he  suddenly  disengaged  his  right 
arm  from  Bella's  and  put  his  hand  into  his  coat- 
pocket.  He  raised  his  hand  high  above  his  head 
and  with  one  supreme  effort  which  transcended  all 
his  former  exertions  he  flung  something — a  small 
metallic  object — into  the  abyss. 

"  Oh,  what  have  you  done  ?"  cried  Bella. 

"  It's  Diana's, — tell  Jerome,"  began  the  old  man, 
but  stopped,  stammering  and  gasping.  His  false 
strength  was  passing ;  in  a  flash  it  had  passed,  and 
he  dropped  in  a  helpless  heap  on  the  ground.  The 
trees  rang  with  Bella's  screams  as  she  sunk  on  her 
knees,  gazing  in  fascinated  terror  at  the  blank,  un- 
seeing eyes,  the  fallen  jaw,  the  cheeks  turning  to  a 
livid  gray,  the  ashen  lips  that  had  uttered  their  last 
gibe ;  she  was  still  kneeling  there  when  the  young 
men  came  dashing  along  the  path  and  through  the 
trees.  Stephen  raised  her  to  her  feet,  and  she  clung 
to  him  a  moment,  sobbing. 

"  How  did  he  come  here  ?  What  did  he  come 
for  ?"  demanded  Jerome. 

*'  He  walked,  sorr,"  replied  John,  "  an'  whin  he 
got  here  he  stritched  out  his  arm  an'  flung  a  bit  o* 


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1 66 


ADRIFT. 


brass  over ;  an'  he  was  dead  before  she  had  tune  to 
scream  wanst." 

"  What  was  it  he  threw  ?  Did  he  say  nothing  ?" 
"  He  sez,  '  It's  Diana's,— tell  Jerome,'  that's  all." 
The  young  man  groaned.  His  head  drooped  on 
his  breast  and  a  bitter  despair  gathered  in  his  face. 
Only  a  moment  since  the  precious  clew  had  been 
within  reach ;  now  it  lay  fathoms  deep  in  the 
Niagara. 

But  instantly  he  raised  his  head,  unconquered. 
"  There  is  one  chance  yet,"  he  said.  "  Mrs.  For- 
rester, can  you  spare  me  that  silver  trident  from 
your  hair?"  She  handed  him  the  pin,  and  he 
pushed  it  down  into  the  gravelly  earth  to  mark  the 
spot  where  the  old  man  had  stood.  "  Now,  Stephen, 
help  the  lady  to  the  house.  John,  fetch  that  settee." 
It  was  brought,  and  they  lifted  Marcy  Forrester's 
emaciated  body  upon  it.  Stephen  supported  Bella's 
languid  footsteps ;  Jerome  and  John  lifted  the  settee 
with  its  inert  ^burden  and  bore  it  across  the  lawn, 
their  heads  uncovered  in  reverence  to  the  dread 
Power  that  stalked  among  them  all. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

"  It  is  an  everlasting  duty,  the  duty  of  being  brave." 

Thomas  Carlyle. 

Death  usually  brings  into  a  house  a  bustle  and 
activity  in  strange  contrast  to  the  still  Presence 
which  is  its  cause ;  but  on  this  occasion  there  was 
very  little  to  be  done.     Jerome  prepared   no  long 


-I 


wmmm 


! 


ADRIFT.  ,67 

obituaries,  ordered  no  flowers,  wrote  no  letters  of 
announcement.  He  had  but  to  drive  to  the  village, 
summon  an  undertaker,  and  leave  the  briefest  possi- 
ble notice  at  the  newspaper  office.  When  he  re- 
turned Stephen  met  him  as  he  drove  up  with  the  in- 
telligence that  the  undertaker  and  his  assistant  were 
already  in  the  house. 

"Very  well,"  said  Jerome,  alighting  and  taking 
from  the  phaeton  a  large  coil  of  rope  some  three- 
fourths  of  an  inch  in  thickness.  "  Brooks,  old  fel- 
low, I  want  your  assistance." 

"  Good  heavens !  surely  you  don't  mean  that 
you're  going  to  descend  the  bank  ?" 

*•  Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Jerome.  "  If  that  letter-case 
is  on  the  face  of  the  earth  I  mean  to  find  it." 

"  You'll  break  your  back  and  be  a  cripple  for  life, 
or  possibly  your  neck,"  objected  Stephen. 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  declared  Jerome. 
He  was  excited  and  in  high  spirits ;  he  was  rejoiced 
to  have  his  long  dormant  activities  at  last  called  into 
requisition.     "  You  will  help  me,  of  course  ?" 

"Of  course,"  returned  Stephen.  "I  have  just 
enough  love  of  adventure  to  relish  the  daring  feats 
of  others." 

"  Come,  then,"  said  Jerome ;  and  dividing  the 
somewhat  heavy  burden  of  the  rope  between  them 
they  walked  through  the  grounds  to  the  pines,  paus- 
ing at  the  house  only  long  enough  to  call  John  and 
order  him  to  follow  with  some  old  woollen  cloths. 
Bella's  hairpin  still  marked  the  spot  where  Marcy 
Forrester  had  stood,  and  Jerome  drew  it  unharmed 
from  the  earth  and  gave  it  to  Stephen,  who  promised 


% 


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m 


if' 


i68 


ADRIFT. 


\\  * 


to  restore  it  to  its  owner.  He  felt  called  upon,  a*} 
did  John  likewise,  to  protest  against  Jerome's 
undertaking. 

"  I'd  not  risk  it  for  a  lump  o*  gold,  let  alone  a  bit 
o'  brass,"  was  John's  remonstrance. 

"  You  might  attach  a  stone  to  a  cord  and  fling  it 
over  from  here,  I  holding  the  cord,"  suggested 
Stephen,  "  Then  you  could  descend  the  bank  by 
the  path  at  the  Whirlpool  and  work  your  way  down- 
stream along  the  margin  of  the  river  till  you  reached 
this  point;  then  when  you  got  here  the  probabilities 
are  that  the  letter-case  would  be  in  close  proximity 
to  the  stone.  If  the  stone  had  fallen  into  the  river 
of  course  you  would  give  up.the  search." 

But  this  would  not  satisfy  Jerome  at  all.  "  I've 
been  such  a  lazy  fellow  all  summer,  I  want  to  do 
something  out  of  the  common,"  he  said.  "There's 
no  danger;  there's  not  risk  enough  to  deserve  the 
name." 

'*  I  doii't  know,"  said  Stephen;  "a  British  soldier, 
a  deserter,  tried  it  on  the  Canada  side,  in  1842. 
The  rope  broke,  with  fatal  results." 

"  This  rope  will  not  break,"  asserted  Jerome,  con- 
fidently. "  Besides,  if  I  tried  to  walk  along  the 
lower  edge  of  the  river  from  the  Whirlpool  path  to 
this  point,  I  should  be  in  constant  peril ;  I  might 
slip,  or  a  stone  might  roll  from  under  my  feet,  to  say 
nothing  of  finding  many  places  totally  impassable. 
I  shall  not  even  try  that  route  coming  back;  I 
not  only  expect  you  two  to  let  me  down,  but  to 
pull  me  up." 

"  It  appears  to  me,"  said  Stephen,  "  that  John  and 


ADRIFT,  1 5^ 

I  ought  to  have  all  the  credit  of  the  exploit;  we 
shall  perform  all  the  exertion." 

"  Av  the  rope  don't  break  by  yer  weight,  it'll  be 
sawed  in  two  across  the  face  o'  the  rock,"  remarked 
John. 

**  No,"  said  Jerome ;  *'  I  wouldn't  trust  it  over 
flint  or  granite;  but  the  first  fifty  feet  passing  over 
will  wear  a  groove  in  this  soft  limestone."  He  took 
off  his  coat,  and  with  Stephen's  assistance  passed 
one  end  of  the  rope  around  his  body  and  firmly  se- 
cured it  under  his  arms,  protecting  himself  from  the 
cutting  of  the  rope  by  pads  of  cloth.  He  replaced 
his  hat  by  a  black  silk  tourist's  cap,  from  under 
whose  edges  his  hair  escaped,  brown  and  curly ;  his 
eyes  sparkled;  an  expectant  pleasure  thrilled  keenly 
through  his  tall,  athletic  frame. 

"  I'm  ready  !"  he  announced.  "  Take  a  couple  of 
turns  of  the  rope  around  that  largest  tree;  wrap 
some  of  these  rags  about  your  hands,  if  you  don't 
want  them  skinned.     All  right  now  ?" 

**  Not  yet !"  cried  Stephen.  "  Won't  you  shake 
hands,  Jerome?  If  you  never  come  back,  it  would 
be  a  comfort  to  remember  that  you  said  good-by." 

"  Well,  you're  not  very  encouraging,"  laughed 
Jerome,  shaking  his  friend's  hand  warmly.  "  I  want 
you  to  lower  very  slowly  at  first ;  when  I  shout,  let 
me  down  faster;  when  I  shout  the  second  time, 
lower  slowly  again.  Don't  let  the  rope  slacken 
much  after  I'm  down,  for  I  shan't  find  a  very  satis- 
factory foothold.  I'll  jerk  the  rope  three  times  when 
I  want  to  come  up.     Ready !     Good-by  !" 

And  he  disappeared  from  sight  over  the  edge  of 


H 


15 


ff^ 


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F 


In 


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^-  J 

^, 


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Ln 


170 


ADRIFT, 


the  precipice.  The  upper  strata  of  rock  were  shelv- 
ing, so  that  for  some  distance  his  perilous  way  was 
down  a  nearly  perpendicular  surface  covered  with 
stunted  pines  and  willows.  His  idea  was  that  the 
letter-case  might  have  lodged  on  this  part  of  the 
bank,  and,  steadying  himself  by  his  feet  as  best  he 
might,  he  beat  and  shook  every  bush  within  his 
grasp.  It  was  in  vain,  however  ;  the  old  man's  pro- 
pulsive power  had  been  less  f^oble  than  Jerome  sup- 
posed, and  he  saw  that  his  only  hope  was  that  the 
object  of  his  search  had  fallen  on  the  lower  portion 
of  the  bank.  •  , 

When  he  arrived  at  the  lower  part  of  the  shelf,  or 
projection,  he  called  "  Faster !"  and  swung  off  into 
clear  space.  He  had  for  an  instant  a  frightful,  sicken- 
ing sense  of  the  nothingness  under  him,  and  he  grew 
dizzy  as  he  slipped  with  comparative  rapidity  past 
craggy  protrusions,  deep  seams  and  fissures,  and  little 
rills  laughing  undismayed  in  their  loneliness.  But 
he  was  calm  in  a  moment,  long  before  he  reached 
the  slope.  When  he  was  almost  down  he  uttered  a 
long,  loud  shout,  and  the  men  at  the  top  paid  out 
the  rope  very  cautiously  until  they  knew  by  the  slack 
that  he  was  standing  upright. 

Then  he  began  a  most  searching  observation  of 
the  pebbly  ground  beneath  his  feet.  He  made  'his 
way  slowly  down  the  abrupt  declivity,  darting  pene- 
trating glances  around  and  under  every  boulder,  and 
into  every  narrowest  crevice.  He  never  doubted 
that  he  should  find  the  letter-case,  nor  did  this  con- 
fidence waver  when  he  had  reached  the  last  rod  of 
his  descent  without  discovering  it. 


ADRIFT. 


171 


Yet,  after  all,  it  was  with  a  shock  of  joyful  sur- 
prise that  he  came  upon  it  where  it  had  fallen  a  yard 
short  of  the  water's  edge  and  lay  wedged  between 
two  stones.  He  snatched  it  up  in  a  triumphant 
ecstasy,  and  his  victorious  shout  echoed  faintly  up 
to  Stepheit  and  John.  He  had  singularly  little  curi- 
osit3  about  the  contents  of  the  case,  feeling  a  serene 
faith  that  what  he  had  striven  so  hard  to  get  would 
not  disappoint  him  at  last.  He  gave  one  look  up 
and  down  the  winding  river,  through  whose  fearful 
stress  and  plunge  but  one  vessel  has  ever  ridden  in 
safety.  Then  he  pulled  three  times  at  the  rope,  and 
it  was  immediately  drawn  tense. 

He  clambered  up  the  slope  and  presently  was 
lifted  off  his  feet,  suspended  between  heaven  and 
earth  as  before.  The  ascent  was  much  slower  than 
the  descent  had  been,  and  the  light  September  breeze 
swayed  his  figure  to  and  fro ;  the  men  above  per- 
ceived the  oscillation  with  horror,  helpless  to  hinder ; 
but  the  sense  of  exaltation  and  triumph  yet  remained 
with  Jerome,  and  he  felt  no  alarm ;  he  drank  in  long 
breaths  of  the  pure  air,  which  had  a  fresh,  free 
quality  as  it  came  sweeping  by  him  in  wide  liberal 
gusts. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  to  him,  and  longer  still  to 
the  others,  before  he  found  himself  in  contact  with 
the  shelving  rock  at  the  top.  A?  soon  as  he  could 
he  caught  hold  of  the  trees  and  bushes  and  so  drew 
himself  upward,  and  presently  he  stood,  flushed  and 
breathless,  beside  John  and  Stephen,  who,  in  spite 
of  their  strenuous  endeavors,  were  both  somewhat 
pale. 


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ii 


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■li'l 

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■■'i. 


E 


172 


ADRIFT, 


"  Thank  God,  you  are  safe,  Jerome !"  cried  Stephen. 
"  You've  had  rather  a  close  call,"  he  explained. 
"  Look  at  the  rope  !" 

Jerome  did  so,  and  saw  that  it  was  frayed  and 
almost  tattered.  He  had  over-estimated  the  fria- 
bility of  the  limestone,  and  had  nearly  paid  with  his 
life  for  the  blunder. 

"  Of  course,  when  you  were  going  down,  we 
couldn't  see  how  the  rope  had  stood  it ;  and  the  first 
part  we  hauled  in  as  you  came  up  didn't  seem  much 
worn  ;  but  when  you  began  swinging  there  like  a 
pendulum,  then  bits  of  the  strand  began  to  unravel 
in  our  hands,  and  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  my  fore- 
head," said  Stephen,  disposed  to  make  as  much  as 
possible  of  Jerome's  jeopardy  and  his  own  sensa- 
tions in  regard  to  it.  "  Every  instant  I  expected  the 
strain  to  relax  suddenly ;  I  wondered  if  I  could  hear 
the  thud  of  your  body  striking  the  rocks,  and 
v/liether  you  would  roll  into  the  water,  and  how  I 
should  get  down  to  you.  We  did  not  dare  to  pull 
quickly ;  a  sudden  jerk  mi^;ht  have  severed  the  rope 
like  twine;  all  we  could  do  was  just  to  draw  in  slow 
and  steady.  And  I  tried  to  recollect  some  sort  of  a 
prayer/'  added  Stephen,  simply. 

Jerome,  too,  lifted  his  heart  in  a  brief,  devout 
thanksgiving.  "  It's  all  right  now,  though,"  he  said. 
"  I  can't  thank  either  of  you  half  enough.  I  shall 
not  forget,  John,  how  you  helped  me." 

"  Your  acclamations  down  in  the  gorge  intimated 
your  success,  I  suppose?"  asked  Stephen,  as  John 
retired. 

"Yes;  I  have  the  letter-case  safe  in  my  pocket. 


ADRIFT. 


173 


It  ivas  a  risk,  after  all,  wasn't  it  ?  But  I'd  risk  ten 
times  as  much — for  Diana !" 

"  Oh,  drop  that !"  said  Stephen.  "  Let's  look  at 
the  papers.     I  scent  a  romance." 

"  Not  now,"  said  Jerome.  "  They  are  hers, — hers 
and  mine, — and  I  shall  not  open  them  until  we  can 
do  so  together." 

*•  Well,  Jerome  Harvey !"  cried  St«phen,  aggrieved. 
"You're  enough  to  make  me  wish  the  rope  had 
broken.  To  be  ni  such  a  state  of  anxiety  as  you 
were  this  morning,  and  not  seize  the  first  opportunity 
to  end  it!" 

"  It  has  ended  itself,"  responded  Jerome.  "  Diana 
is  not  my  sister.  I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  if  I  had  read 
these  papers.  There  couldn't  be  such  a  monstrous 
wrong  on  this  beautiful  earth !" 

**  I  know  how  you  feel,"  said  Stephen,  his  fond- 
ness for  quotation  getting  the  better  of  his  ill 
humor, — 

"  '  Morning's  at  seven, 

The  hill-side's  dew-pearled, 
God's  in  His  heaven, 
All's  right  in  the  world !'  " 

"  Yes ;  I  feel  exactly  so,"  acquiesced  Jerome.  He 
started  towards  the  house,  and  Stephen  accompanied 
him,  feeling  rather  small  and  ignoble,  the  penalty 
one  pays  for  being  a  hero's  friend. 

The  second  day  after  Mr.  Forrester's  death  was 
appointed  for  the  funeral.  Dr.  Tevan  furnished  the 
names  and  addresses  of  several  persons  who  had 
been  old-time  cronies  of  Khe  deceased;  but  they 
were  of  a  class  to  whom  mortuary  duties  are  pecu- 

16* 


I 
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174 


ADRIFT. 


\\  '    If* 


]  ^ 


ll 


liarly  distasteful,  and  did  not  honor  the  obsequies 
with  their  attendance.  There  were  present  only  the 
family,  Brooks,  Dr.  Tevan,  the  servants,  and  a  few  of 
Diana's  friends  from  the  village.  A  minister,  also 
from  the  village,  read  the  burial  service  over  the 
remains,  and  then  the  casket-lid  shut  out  of  sight 
forever  Marcy  Forrester's  yellow  face,  stamped  with 
its  old  sardonic*  grin.  There  was  no  pretence  of 
sorrow ;  Bella's  were  the  only  tears  shed  upon  the 
occasion,  and  she  wept  less  from  grief  than  from 
hysteric  excitement. 

It  was  not  a  merry,  but  let  us  say  a  resigned  and 
cheerful  party  that  returned  to  Diana's  house  after 
the  interment.  A  substantial  tea  awaited  them,  after 
which  they  gathered  in  the  parlor  rbout  the  fire 
which  the  cool  September  evening  made  acceptable. 
John  Forrester  and  Stephen  had  fraternized  when 
they  first  met,  and  they  were  accustomed  to  play 
poker  with  packages  of  ten-cent  pieces  which  John 
brought  from  Buffalo  for  the  purpose ;  but  they 
tacitly  recognized  that  the  amusement  would  be  in- 
decorous this  evening,  and  contented  themselves 
with  conversation  until  it  was  time  for  Jerome  and 
Stephen  to  depart. 

The  next  morning  Dr.  Tevan  brought  the  will. 
Marcy  himself  had  written  it  on  a  sheet  of  letter- 
paper,  and  had  intrusted  it  to  his  physician.  He  had 
not  cared  to  project  the  shadow  of  his  eccentricities 
beyond  his  own  life,  and  the  legatees  were  agreeably 
surprised  to  find  the  will  exceedingly  simple  and 
just.  He  bequeathed  to  Diana  her  home  and  its 
grounds ;  to  Jerome  his  own  residence,  with  a  suf- 


!1  ! 


!!: 


ADRIFT. 


175 


ficient  sum  to  make  up  the  original  fortune  of  the 
elder  Jerome  Harvey ;  to  Bella  the  marquise  dress ; 
to  his  nephew  John  the  residue  of  his  property.  To 
Jerome  was  delegated  the  task  of  publishing  his 
Memoirs. 

Dr.  Tevan  went  away,  and  the  three  young  men 
proceeded  to  examine  Marcy's  desk.  At  first  they 
felt  a  certain  hesitancy  in  reading  papers  which  their 
owner  was  powerless  longer  to  conceal,  but  they 
soon  found  that  he  had  destroyed  all  documents  of 
a  private  and  personal  nature,  and  no  traces  remained 
of  secrets  which  might  damage  his  post-mortem 
reputation. 

His  accounts  were  kept  with  scrupulous  neatness, 
and  his  securities  were  carefully  enumerated.  In  a 
drawer  by  itself  lay  the  manuscript  of  his  Memoirs, 
that  production  which  represented  the  experience  of 
a  lifetime  and  the  patient  labor  of  years. 

Jerome  took  it. up,  while  the  others  were  going 
over  the  accounts,  and  read  a  few  pages  here  and 
there.  ^  The  work  was  not  quite  finished,  but  the 
writer  had  known  that  he  could  write  no  more,  and 
had  appended  a  wavering  signature  and  paraph  to 
the  last  page.  As  Jerome  read,  his  face  darkened, 
and  presently,  still  reading,  he  walked  to  the  fire- 
place and  stirred  the  coals  into  a  blaze. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Harvey  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

**  I'm  going  to  burn  this — this  abomination !"  he 
replied. 

"  No,  no !"  cried  Stephen,  springing  up  and  trying 
to  wrest  it  from  him.  "  You  are  mad ;  there  may  be 
a  fortune  in  it ;  you're  no  judge  of  literary  value." 


nit 


i 
II 

I 


\ 


ij 


176 


ADRIFT. 


rM\ 


1^  \m 


:»! 


"  Let  me  alone,  will  you  ?"  said  Jerome.  "  I'm  a 
judge  of  decency,  at  any  rate,  and  I  would  as  soon 
poison  a  well  as  send  this  out  into  the  world." 

"  At  least  let  me  see  it,"  coaxed  Stephen.  "  You 
know  it  can't  hurt  me." 

"  No,"  said  Jerome,  still  turning  the  pages  and 
finding  more  objectionable  matter  on  each  succeed- 
ing one.  "  You  can  imagine  the  sort  of  book  that 
man  would  write.  *  Can  you  gather  grapes  fcom 
thorns  ?'     But  no  one  shall  ever  read  it." 

"  It  was  left  you  in  trust  to  publish,"  said 
Forrester. 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Stephen,  "  and  no  matter  though 
you  hated  the  man  and  his  opinions,  yet  the  trust 
remains  sacred.  Dare  you  be  recreant  to  the  faith 
the  dead  reposed  in  you  ?" 

"  I  dare  do  a  small  wrong  instead  of  a  great  one," 
returned  Jerome.  He  felt  it  strange  that  these  two 
men,  both  of  whom  habitually  walked  on  a  lower 
plane  than  nis  own,  should  be  dictating  his  conduct 
to  him  on  high  moral  grounds.  , 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  know,  Harvey,"  suggested 
Forrester,  "  how  hard  he  worked  on  it,  how  it  was 
his  one  solace  through  these  weary  years." 

"  Would  you  have  nothing  printed  but  children's 
and  school-girl's  books  ?"  sneered  Stephen. 

For  answer  Jerome  turned,  unrelenting,  to  the 
fireplace,  and  thrust  the  manuscript  down  among 
the  coals.  He  stood  by,  separating  the  leaves  with 
the  poker,  until  the  paper  had  shrivelled  into  black 
ashes,  and  it  was  as  if  Marcy  Forrester's  pen  had 
never 


Hi 


ADRIFT,  17^ 

"  Raged  like  a  fire  among  the  noblest  names, 
Defaming  and  defacing,  till  it  left 
Not  even  Lancelot  brave  nor  Galahad  clean." 


"  It  seems  pretty  rough  on  the  old  fellow,"  re- 
marked Forrester.  He  was,  however,  far  from 
blaming  his  cousin,  whom  he  admired  immensely. 
"  I  guess  you've  done  about  the  right  thing  after  all," 
he  said.  "  Cheer  up,  Brooks ;  perhaps  it  was  insuf- 
ferably dull  trash." 

But  Brooks  would  not  be  consoled.  He  had  for 
some  time  had  a  prevision  that  he  should  edit  the 
Memoirs,  and  that  the  book  would  create  a  great 
sensation ;  and  to  think  of  everything  being  ruined 
by  Jerome's  priggishness  and  stupidity  !  He  sulked, 
and  finally  flung  out  of  the  room  in  a  rage,  saying 
he  would  get  something  to  eat  in  the  village;  he 
couldn't  stand  the  lofty  atmosphere  of  the  house. 

The  o.hers  finished  their  work  and  partook  of 
luncheon.  Then  the  phaeton  was  brought  to  the 
door,  and  they  drove  over  to  Diana's.  Jerome 
alighted,  and  Bella  took  his  place ;  she  was  to  drive 
her  husband  to  the  station,  and  as  there  was  plenty 
of  time  he  elected  to  take  the  train  at  Niagara  Falls 
rather  than  at  Suspension  Bridge,  thereby  enjoying 
a  longer  drive  in  company  with  his  wife.  He  tried 
to  persuade  her  to  go  home  with  him. 

"  I  really  want  you,  I  do,  indeed."  he  asseverated, 
as  if  it  were  rather  surprising.  "  And  Viviette  gives 
a  tea  next  week,  and  she  says  you  must  be  there." 

'*  It's  time  I  was  thinking  about  some  new  clothes," 
mused  Bella. 


I 


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is 


I>> . 


1.  1... 


178 


ADRIFT. 


"The  fire  in  the  furnace  is  going;  I  guess  you'll 
think  your  own  home's  a  palace  a.ter  Diana's.  Come 
now ;  I'll  get  a  man  to  drive  the  horse  home,  and 
Diana  can  send  your  trunks  to-morrow." 

They  had  reached  the  station  by  this  time,  and  he 
sprang  out  of  the  phaeton  and  stood  waiting  for  her 
answer.  She  was  silent  a  moment,  irresolute.  The 
idea  of  sudden  flight  was  not  without  its  charm  ;  she 
felt  vaguely  impelled  to  go  with  him ;  still, — 

"Oh,  I  must  say  good-by  to  them  all!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  But  I'm  very  glad  you  miss  me,  dear," 
she  added,  softly.  "  I'll  come  home  in  a  day  or  so 
now." 

"All  right!"  said  John,  successfully  hiding  his 
disappointment,  if  indeed  he  felt  any.  "  Come  when 
you  like ;  the  sooner  the  better.  Now  drive  straight 
back  to  Diana's,  there's  a  good  girl,  for  it's  going 
to  rain.     Good-by !" 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

"  The  tempter  or  the  tempted, — who  sins  most?" 

Measure  for  Measure. 


•'  How  oft  the  sight  of  means  to  do  ill  deeds 
Makes  ill  deeds  done!" 

King  John. 

Jerome  and  Diana,  left  alone,  entered  the  parlor. 
The  clouds  were  beginning  to  gather  heavily,  and 
the  room  was  rather  dark,     Diana  opened  wide  the 


ADRIFT, 


179 


shutters  and  pushed  the  curtains  aside,  with  a  certain 
effect  of  wishing  to  give  publicity  to  the  interview. 
She  wore  a  soft  wool  dress  of  Wirm  crimson,  that 
seemed  to  Jerome  to  light  up  the  whole  gray  cold 
day;  it  reflected  a  faint,  fictitious  glow  upon  her 
white  neck  and  hands.  He  resolved  not  to  refer  to 
her  dress  in  the  remotest  way,  and  immediately  ob- 
served,— 

•'  I  suppose  some  people  might  expect  me  to  wear 
black  for  Mr.  Forrester;  but  such  conventionalities' 
are  of  course  only  of  value  when  they  are  in  accord 
with  our  own  wishes." 

"  Are  you  surprised  to  see  me  in  a  red  dress  ?" 
asked  Diana. 

'*  It's  lovely !"  cried  Jerome.  "  How  could  I  say  a 
word  against  it  ?" 

"Oh,  you  haven't;  but  I  couldn't  wear  mourning 
for  him.  I  did  not  like  him ;  I  am  not  sorry  he  is 
dead.     Are  you  ?" 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  said  Jerome,  with  unwilling  verac- 
ity. **  It's  singular,  the  universal  dislike  he  inspired. 
John  and  Ellen  did  not  have  for  him  a  particle  of 
the  Irish  servant's  usual  affection.  No  one  could 
ever  have  loved  him,  unless  it  was  his  mother.  And 
yet  it  was  only  the  legitimate  outcome  of  his  life. 
He  often  quoted  these  lines  in  my  hearing : 

•  Even  now  I  curse  the  day  (and  yet  I  think 
Few  come  within  the  compass  of  my  curse) 
Wherein  I  did  not  some  notorious  ill.'  " 

'*  The  last  act  of  his  life  was  as  notorious  an  ill  as 
any,"  said  Diana,  mournfully.     *'  I  had  known  from 


t 

I 

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i 


m 


i8o 


ADRIFT. 


my  childhood  that  he  would  never  reveal  my  parent- 
age to  me,  and  I  had  schooled  myself  to  remain  in 
ignorance ;  but  it  is  very  hard  to  think  that  three 
days  ago  there  were  papers  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
which  would  have  established  my  identity,  and  now 
they  are  utterly  destroyed." 

"  Then  Mrs.  Forrester  told  you  ?" 

"She  said  that  he  threw  a  letter-case  or  something 
of  that  sort  over  the  bank,  crying,  '  It's  Diana's !' 
Of  course  it  fell  into  the  water." 

"  No,"  said  Jerome,  "  I  have  reason  to  know  that 
it  fell  short  of  the  water." 

Diana  regarded  him  a  moment,  motionless,  almost 
breathless.  "  Do  not  torture  me,"  she  said  at  last, 
in  a  trembling  voice.  "  You  would  not  speak  in  that 
way  if  it  were  impossible  to  recover  the  papers !" 

This  was  the  hour  of  Jerome's  glory.  He  took 
the  letter-case  from  his  pocket.  "  They  are  already 
recovered;  they  are  here,"  he  announced,  quietly. 

Diana  gave  a  little  cry ;  she  was  for  once  shaken 
out  of  her  usual  cold  composure.  "  Oh !  You  went 
down  for  it ;  you  risked  your  life  to  get  it !"  she  ex- 
claimed ;  she  spoke  no  word  of  praise,  but  the  ad- 
miration in  her  eyes  was  unqualified. 

Jerome,  who  had  expected  merely  a  rebuke  for 
his  foolhardiness,  prized  this  admiratior.  beyond  its 
worth.  "It  was  nothing;  there  was  scarcely  any 
risk,"  he  said,  modestly. 

"  Have  you — of  course  you  have  examined  the 
papers  ?"  asked  Diana. 

"  Of  course  I  have  not!"  said  Jerome,  with  a  touch 
of  indiirnatioii      "  Are    they  not    yours  ?     But   if  I 


ADRIFT. 


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might  suggest  anything,  I  should  propose  that  we 
read  them  together." 

"  Very  well,"  assented  Diana.  She  tried  to  as- 
sume her  customary  indifference,  but  it  was  impossi- 
ble ;  she  was  more  excited  than  she  had  ever  been 
in  her  life.  He  handed  her  the  letter-case  and  she 
raised  the  lid ;  then  she  paused,  arrested  by  a  con- 
sciousness that  filled  Jerome's  mind  also  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  all  other  thoughts.  Upon  the  threshold 
of  what  mystery  were  they  treading  ?  Had  not  the 
black  record  better  remain  forever  unread  ?  Marcy 
had  said  that  Diana's  mother  was  a  wretch,  and 
Diana  shuddered  with  a  fear  that  after  all  he  had 
spoken  truth.  Jerome  felt  the  biting  tooth  of  doubt ; 
perhaps  Diana  really  was  his  sister ;  he  marvelled  at 
the  false  security  in  which  he  had  lulled  himself  for 
days. 

"Take  it  and  read  it,  I  cannot!"  said  Diana  at 
last,  returning  the  case.  Jerome,  too,  hesitated  a 
moment;  then, — 

"  This  is  cowardly !"  he  said,  and  drew  out  of  the 
case  several  sheets  of  paper  folded  together.  .  They 
were  yellow  as  old  ivory,  and  the  innermost  sheet 
was  dated  nearly  thirty  years  back.  The  papers  were 
written  in  the  calligraphy  which  had  been  Marcy 
Forrester's  before  disease  had  made  his  hand  infirm. 

Jerome,  who  had  waited  so  long,  could  not  now 

wait  the  slow  process  of  reading  aloud ;  he  ran  his 

eye  swiftly  over  the  sheets,  tore  out  a  portion  of 

their  meaning,  and  exclaimed,  "  It  is  all  right !     I 

knew  it  all  the  time !     We  are  not  related ;  we  are 

as  far  apart  as  Greece  and  Greenland !" 

16 


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182 


ADRIFT, 


11-1 


"  Oh,  dear !  You  would  have  been  a  very  nice 
brother,"  sighed  Diana.  To  herself  she  added,  "  You 
speak  truth :  if  you  are  not  my  brother,  we  are  in- 
deed far  apart." 

The  young  man,  having  mastered  the  main  fact, 
turned  back  to  the  first  page  and  read  aloud  as  follows : 

"  Why  are  so  many  temptations  put  in  the  way  of 
an  evil-doer?  If  a  knave  wished  to  reform,  the  fools 
would  not  let  him.  There  are  no  corresponding  in- 
citements to  good.  A  philanthropist  never  finds  his 
work  lying  ready  to  his  hand ;  he  has  to  establish 
missions  and  hospitals  and  seek  constantly  for  op- 
portunities to  benefit  mankind.  But  a  malefactor 
has  only  to  sit  quiet  in  his  chair,  and  his  natural 
prey  will  seek  him  as  moths  swarm  around  a  candle, 
seeming  to  say,  '  Here  I  am,  fleece  me,  rob  me ;  I 
am  at  your  service  1' 

"These  reflections  passed  through  my  brain  one 
evening  at  a  cafe  in  New  York ;  they  were  induced 
by  the  appearance  of  a  young  man  seated  at  a  table 
near  me.  I  never  saw  a  person  of  more  exaggerated 
and  ostentatious  simplicity.  His  clothes  were  of  a 
rustic  and  antiquated  fashion ;  his  air  was  an  odd 
mixture  of  timidity  and  self-assertion  ;  he  scanned 
his  neighbors  with  a  gaze  he  evidently  intended  to 
be  sharp  and  penetrating,  but  which  in  reality  be- 
trayed only  anxiety;  more  than  once  he  furtively 
touched  his  breast-pocket  to  assure  himself  of  the 
safety  of  some  treasure. 

"  I  carefully  avoided  appearing  to  notice  him,  and 
was  presently  rewarded  for  this  forbearance ;  he  ap- 
proached me  with  an  awkward    bow,  and   placing 


ADRIFT, 


183 


' 


'  :• 


both  his  hands  on  my  table  bent  over  to  speak  to 
me.  For  a  moment,  as  I  gazed  at  his  large  red 
liands,  in  such  ugly  contrast  to  my  own  white  and 
delicate  ones,  there  seemed  a  certain  hardness  and 
injustice  in  the  inevitable  law  that  the  hand  which 
toils  and  sweats  to  wrest  money  from  the  niggaiJ 
earth  should  never  be  the  hand  to  spend  and  enjoy 
it.     But  I  did  not  rebel  against  this  decree  of  Fate. 

" '  Sir,'  the  young  fellow  began,  '  I  am  a  stranger 
lii  New  York.' 

*'  I  looked  my  surprise. 

** '  Yes,  I  am  indeed,'  he  went  on, '  and  I've  missed 
the  train  I  was  going  home  on.  I  should  take  it  as 
a  favor  if  you  direct  me  to  some  place  where  I  can 
get  a  night's  lodging.' 

"  *  The  hotels  ?'  I  suggested. 

'"Well,  their  prices  are  rather  steep,'  he  demurred  ; 
adding  hastily, '  Not  but  what  I  can  afford  to  go  there 
well  enough.' 

" '  No  doubt,'  I  said,  gravely,  and  gave  him  the 
address  of  a  quiet  boarding-house  at  no  great  dis- 
tance.    Still  he  lingered. 

" '  Will  you  be  walking  that  way  yourself?'  he 
asked.  'If  you  are,  I  could  find  it  easier;  and  I 
should  like  your  company.' 

"  Did  ever  a  fly  so  persistently  force  himself  upon 
a  spider?  I  resigned  myself. 

"  '  I  shall  be  happy  to  show  you  the  way,'  I  said, 
affably,  *  if  you  will  sit  down  and  wait  till  I  finish 
my  supper.  But  you  must  not  be  idle,'  I  added,  as 
he  complied  readily  enough,  and  I  ordered  a  little 
refreshment  for  him. 


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ADRIFT. 


"  He  tried  at  first  to  maintain  a  prudent  reserve, 
but  I  feigned  a  carelessness  and  indifference  about 
his  affairs  v/hich  soon  piqued  him  into  franknes*?. 
He  wished  me  to  feel,  as  he  undoubtedly  felt  him- 
self, that  the  circumstances  of  his  visit  to  New  York 
were  in  the  highest  degree  remarkable,  and  he  was 
soon  recounting  them  at  full.  His  name  was  Rufus 
Clark;  he  had  been  married  three  years ;  his  wife's 
name  was  Minny ;  they  had  no  children ;  they  had 
each  inherited  a  small  farm  from  their  parents,  with 
this  difference,  that  one  farm  was  mortgaged  and  the 
other  was  not;  the  encumbered  one  was  the  more 
desirable  of  the  two,  as  it  was  larger,  cleared  of  tim- 
ber, and  their  cottage  was  situated  on  it.  He  and 
Minny  had  almost  starved  themselves  trying  to  make 
or  to  save  money  enough  to  pay  off  the  mortgage, 
but  they  had  been  barely  able  to  make  their  living 
and  had  saved  nothing  whatever,  and  finally  they  had 
come  to  the  resolution  to  sell  the  unencumbered 
property  and  take  up  the  mortgage  on  the  portion 
they  occupied.  They  had  seen  in  a  New  York 
paper  the  advertisement  of  a  man  who  wanted  a 
tract  of  land  in  their  vicinity,  and  Clark  had  an- 
swered it  that  day,  bringing  the  necessary  papers 
with  him.  He  had  sold  the  smaller  farm  for  nine 
hundred  dollars,  which  was  a  trifle  more  than  suffi- 
cient to  lift  the  mortgage ;  with  the  surplus  money 
he  purposed  to  buy  some  improved  agricultural  im- 
plements, for  he  had  been  struggling  along  with 
worn-out  tools.  He  had  already  bought  a  present 
for  Minny,  which  he  displayed  with  ingenuous  pride. 
It  was  an  oval  brooch  of  shell  cameo,  surrounded  by  a 


ADRIFT.  185 

twisted  gold  wire ;  it  was  roughly  carvod  in  a  land- 
scape ;  there  was  a  house  and  a  tree  and  a  bridge, 
with  a  woman  standing  on  the  bridge.  No  one  but 
a  barbarian  wo  aid  have  bought  such  a  monstrosity. 

"  Well,  my  boyhood  is  not  yet  so  far  behind  me 
that  I  have  forgotten  my  experiences  on  father's 
farm  near  Buffalo.  I  talked  eloquently  enough  of 
the  horrors  of  a  small  farm ;  but  Clark  said  it  would 
be  mere  child's  play  now  that  they  had  not  to  make 
up  interest  and  dread  foreclosure.  I  remarked  that 
he  might  have  transacted  his  business  by  mail  with 
less  expense,  to  which  he  replied  that  although  he 
was  twenty-four  years  old  he  had  never  before  been 
in  a  city,  and  thought  it  a  good  opportunity  to  see 
the  sights.  Then  I  cautioned  him  about  mentioning 
his  money  to  strangers.  He  laughed,  and  assured 
me  he  could  tell  a  rogue  when  he  saw  one,  and  was 
perfectly  able  to  take  care  of  his  own. 

"  He  took  care  of  it  so  extremely  well  that  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning  I  left  him  with  h»^  muddled 
head  dropped  in  a  stupor  on  a  table  in  the  boarding- 
house,  and  departed  with  the  nine  hundred  dollars  in 
my  own  pocket.  Let  no  one  say  it  was  stolen, — we 
had  merely  played  a  few  games  of  cards  in  which 
the  chances  were  about  as  a  million  to  one  in  my 
favor.     I  never  saw  him  again. 

"  In  a  week  I  was  sorry  I  had  not  left  him  his 
paltry  hundreds,  for  I  had  lost  every  dollar  in  un- 
lucky speculations.  Fortunately,  just  at  this  junc- 
ture I  met  a  California  miner,  who  tided  me  over  my 
difficulties. 

"A  trifle  more  than  a  year  later  I  came  into  a 

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large  property,  and  the  attendant  rejoicings  wero  so 
vehement  and  prolonged  that  my  health  was  some- 
what impaired.  The  doctors  ordered  me  to  try  per- 
fect rest  and  quiet  as  a  means  of  recuperation,  and 
accordingly  I  went  to  a  little  village  in  Northern 
Pennsylvania,  whose  only  recommendation  was  that 
mountain  streams  in  the  neighborhood  afforded  good 
fishing.  After  a  week's  sojourn  there  I  was  almost 
recovered. 

"  One  evening  I  hired  a  horse  and  buggy,  and 
went  out  for  a  drive, — I  never  had  the  physical 
courage  to  ride.  It  was  a  moonless  night  in  late 
autumn ;  the  air  was  still,  and  the  bare  trees  beneath 
which  I  drove  scarcely  sighed  in  the  darkness.  I 
felt  serene,  contented,  at  peace  with  all  men. 

"  I  had  driven  through  the  woods  a  long  way, 
when  I.  came  to  a  clearing.  There  was  a  house  on 
it,  small  and  solitary,  but  with  several  lighted  win- 
dows. It  looked  bright  and  hospitable,  and  I  got 
out  of  the  buggy,  went  into  the  yard,  and  asked  a 
woman  lounging  in  the  door-way  for  a  drink  of 
water. 

"  As  I  stood  waiting  for  her  to  come  back,  there 
came  a  touch,  light  yet  harsh,  on  the  hand  hanging 
at  my  side,  and  something  seemed  trying  to  wind 
itself  around  my  arm.  I  looked  down,  and  I  confess 
to  a  thrill  of  dread  when  I  saw  through  the  gloom 
that  the  breeze,  slight  as  it  was,  had  lifted  a  piece  of 
black  crape  against  me.  I  shook  it  off,  and  moved 
a  step  aside. 

*' '  I  was  not  aware,'  I  said,  as  the  woman  returned 
with  the  water,  '  that  this  was  a  house  of  mourning.' 


l\ 


ADRIFT,  187 

" '  And  it's  not,'  she  answered.  *  It's  a  house  of 
death,  for  there's  two  people  lyin*  stark  corpses  in  the 
best  room;  but  lands!  they  left  no  kin  to  mourn 
'em.  Won't  you  come  in,  sir?  He  blew  out  his 
brains,  and  he  made  ruther  of  a  mess  of  it,  so  we 
hed  to  shet  his  coffin ;  but  she  looks  as  pretty  as  a 
picter,  poor  thing,' 

"  I  did  not  hesitate ;  the  calm  repose  of  death  has 
always  seemed  a  beautiful  and  fascinating  sight  to 
me.  I  removed  my  hat,  and  foil -^ wed  the  woman 
into  the  'best  room.'  It  was  poor  enough,  but  it 
had  the  solemnity  of  a  temple.  On  the  closed  coffin 
lay  the  pistol,  old  and  rusty,  with  which  its  occupant 
had  terminated  his  life ;  to  the  rustic  mind  this  prob- 
ably had  the  significance  of  military  honors.  In  the 
other  coffin  lay  the  body  of  a  young  woman ;  the 
face  had  not  yet  fallen  into  the  vacancy  of  death,  and 
I  could  trace  in  it  lines  of  patient  endurance.  Her 
roughened  hands  were  crossed  upon  her  breast,  over 
a  shroud  of  some  plain,  coarse  stuff;  the  shroud  was 
fastened  at  the  throat  by  a  cameo  brooch,  engraved 
with  a  house  and  a  tree  and  a  bridge.  I  had  seen 
the  brooch  before. 

" '  Poor  Minny  sot  a  good  deal  o'  store  by  that,' 
said  the  woman,  seeing  my  eyes  rest  upon  it.  *  It 
stood  fur  a  great  many  things  in  her  mind,  and  we're 
goin'  to  lay  it  away  with  her.  Would  you  like  to 
hear  about  'em,  sir  ?  You  might  feel  willin'  to  do 
somethin'  fur  the  child.' 

" '  Oh,  there  is  a  child,  is  there  ?'  I  said.  *  Yes,  I 
will  listen ;  but  let  us  go  outside.' 

"  We  went  out  and  sat  doTvn  on  the  door-step,  and 


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I'   ^' 


'    '.'■ 


1 88 


ADRIFT. 


she  told  me  that  the  man — his  name  was  Rufus 
Clark — had  lost  near  a  thousand  dollars  in  New  York 
City  a  year  before,  and  came  home  with  only  the 
cameo  brooch  to  show  for  it  all.  He  never  com- 
plained, only  seemed  to  break  right  down,  dis- 
couraged and  worn  out.  His  wife  tried  to  cheer  him 
up,  and  never  once  reproached  him,  but  he  only  grew 
more  and  more  down-hearted.  After  a  while  she 
would  talk  in  a  kind  of  hopeful  way  about  the  baby 
that  was  coming,  saying  it  would  make  things  lively 
again;  but  when  at  last  the  baby  was  born,  rnd 
while  Minny  was  sick,  the  mortgage  on  the  house 
was  foreclosed.  Minny  got  up,  but  she  only  crept 
weakly  about  the  house,  and  never  got  her  strength 
back  again.  The  day  before  my  visit,  Clark  came 
in  from  the  barn  and  found  her  lying  back  in  her 
chair,  some  old  socks  of  his  which  she  had  been  try- 
ing to  mend  slipping  off  her  lap, — she  could  rest  at 
last. 

"  He  laid  her  on  the  bed  and  went  for  the  neigh- 
bors. He  seemed  to  take  it  very  calmly,  sitting  silent 
beside  her  with  his  head  in  his  hands.  At  last  he 
rose,  saying  he  might  as  well  fix  up  some  of  his  old 
tools  as  do  nothing,  and  taking  some  oil  and  sand- 
paper he  went  out  to  the  barn.  For  more  than  an 
hour  he  sat  out  there,  with  his  back  to  the  door, 
scraping  and  polishing  at  something.  A  heavy  rain 
was  falling,  and  the  women  felt  how  dreary  and 
lonely  he  would  be;  but  they  hoped  the  work  would 
divert  his  mind.  At  last  they  heard  a  bitter  laugh 
from  him ;  he  was  standing  in  the  barn  door  holding 
an  old  pistol  to  his  head.     The  women  rushed  out 


ADRIFT. 


189 


to  him,  crying,  and  begging  him  to  put  it  down. 
Twice  it  snapped  and  missed  fire. 

"  *0h!  can't  I  even  kill  myself?*  he  cried,  with  a 
kind  of  scream;  and  just  then  it  went  off,  and  he 
tumbled  out  head  foremost  into  the  mud,  and  rolled 
over  with  his  poor  disfigured  face  turned  up  to  the 
sky,  and  the  rain  beating  down  on  it  as  if  it  would 
wash  it  clean  again. 

"  I  thanked  the  woman  for  her  story,  and  praised 
the  dramatic  instinct  she  had  displayed  in  its  telling. 
I  was  not  sorry  for  this  chance  of  repaying  any  in- 
jury I  had  done  Clark,  and  after  musing  a  moment 
I  considerably  astonished  the  woman — and  myself — 
by  offering  to  adopt  the  child,  a  girl.  There  were 
three  other  women  in  the  house,  and  they  all  lauded 
my  generosity  to  the  skies.  The  one  who  had  told 
the  story — a  Mrs.  Pryor — offered  to  attend  the  child 
as  nurse  till  I  could  place  it  in  a  permanent  home, 
and  without  more  ado  she  wrapped  it  up  and  we  got 
into  the  buggy  and  drove  off. 

"  I  laughed  a  little  at  a  coincidence :  this  was  the 
second  time  within  a  few  weeks  I  had  diiven  at 
night  in  company  with  an  infant.  But  I  was  not 
alone  this  time,  and  I  was  rather  gbd  of  it;  the 
woods  seemed  less  silent  than  they  had  been,  and  I 
might  have  fancied  odd  things  about  their  strange 
low  murmiirings.  It's  queer  how  easily  the  good, 
the  true,  the  earnest  people  slip  out  of  life ;  a  man 
like  me  outlives  them  all.  I  suppose  I  cannot  ex- 
pect to  do  so  forever. 

"  I  shook  off  these  feelings  and  turned  to  Mrs. 
Pryor.     '  This  iittle  girl  was  born  in  the  very  heart 


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190 


ADRIFT. 


of  the  woods/  I  remarked.  *  She  ought  to  be  a  very 
goddess  of  the  forest.  What  do  you  think  of  Diana 
for  a  name  for  her  ?' 

"  My  companion  replied,  as  she  was  bound  to  do, 
that  nothing  could  be  prettier,  and  the  child  was  then 
and  there  named  Diana.  When  we  reached  Mrs. 
Pryor's  house,  I  waited  in  the  buggy  while  she 
hurried  in  and  got  some  clothing.  We  remained 
all  night  at  the  tavern,  and  the  next  day  went  north- 
ward. I  established  the  little  Diana  in  a  school, 
overcoming  the  prin  :ipars  scruples  by  a  handsome 
consideration,  legally  adopted  the  child,  paid  Mrs. 
Pryor  well  and  sent  her  home  again,  and  felt  that  I 
had  much  more  than  done  my  duty. 

"At  present  I  intend  to  tell  the  girl  her  story  when 
she  is  old  enough  to  understand  it;  if  I  should  not 
do  so  this  paper  will  reveal  it  after  my  death.  If  she 
feels  inclined  to  harbor  the  idea  that  I  was  unjust, 
let  her  reflect  that  if  I  had  not  taken  her  father's 
money  some  one  else  would;  that  I  shall  expend 
many  times  the  amount  upon  her  if  we  both  live ; 
that  if  she  grows  up  to  be  a  lady,  refined  and  edu- 
cated, it  is  I  she  must  thank  for  it. 

"  Marcy  Forrester." 

At  the  foot  of  the  manuscript  w:.3  the  name  of 
the  village  near  which  Diana  was  born,  and  the  date 
of  her  parents'  marriage,  of  their  death,  and  of  her 
own  birth ;  the  latter  was  but  a  few  days  removed 
from  Jerome's  birthday. 

The  young  man  finished  reading;  he  hung  his 
head,  red  with  shame  at  the  blackness  and  vileness 


.  i 


^  I 


ADRIFT. 


191 


of  his  father's  character.     He  resolved  to  repudiate 
fiercely  any  palliation  Diana  might  present. 

But  he  was  not  given  any  occasion  to  do  so. 
Diana  remained  silent  a  long  time  looking  out  at 
the  rain,  and  when  at  last  she  spoke  it  was  to  express 
a  fear  that  Mrs.  Forrester  would  be  wet  to  her  skin. 


t 


t 


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1 


1! 

f! 


1 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


?}\ 


Ah  me !  what  agony  to  own 
That  Sin  doth  speak  in  Love's  low  tone, 
Looks  fondly  out  of  Love's  dear  eyes, 
And  walks  in  very  Love's  disguise. 


Bella,  disregarding  her  husband's  injunction  to 
go  directly  home,  drove  through  the  village  and 
across  ♦ihe  bridge  to  Goat  Island.  The  foliage  had 
taken  on  the  bright  autumnal  tints,  but  the  leaves 
had  not  fallen  as  yet,  and  they  overlapped  each 
other  above  her  head  so  thickly  that  all  sense  of  the 
gray  and  lowering  sky  was  shut  out.  To  Bella's 
fancy  there  seemed  something  protecting  in  the  way 
the  branches  bent  down  over  her,  something  sooth- 
ing in  the  delicate  crepitations  of  their  yellow  leaves. 
She  drove  very  slowly  through  this  leafy  colonnade 
till  she  came  to  the  Biddle  Stairs. 

These  are  situated  on  the  northwestern  extremity 
of  Goat  Island,  and  consist  of  some  straight,  very 
steep  steps,  and  below  them  a  spiral  staircase  of 
eighty  steps,  which  winds  about  an  immense  mast 


I'll 


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192  ADRIFT,  JiiB 

affixed  to  the  face  of  the  rock  by  massive  Bolts  and 
nuts.  The  staircase  is  enclosed  in  a  toMrer  lighted 
at  short  intervals  by  small  square  windows.  The 
whole  is  palpably  and  visibly  a  safe  structure,  yet  it 
always  inspired  in  Bella's  mind  the  gloomiest  re- 
flections on  the  insecurity  of  human  existence,  and 
she  never  descended  it  until  some  one  had  demon- 
strated its  soundness  at  that  particular  epoch  by 
going  down  and  ascending  while  she  waited  at  the 
top  for  a  report. 

To-day,  however,  when  she  had  tied  the  horse  to 
a  tree,  she  descended  the  stairs  without  a  trace  of 
her  usual  misgivings.  Arrived  at  the  foot,  she 
turned  to  the  right,  and,  after  walking  a  short  dis- 
tance, sat  down  upon  a  convenient  stone.  She  was 
about  half-way  down  the  bank ;  far  below  she  could 
see  the  little  "  Maid  of  the  Mist"  slowly  steaming 
by,  its  passengers  covered  from  head  to  foot  by  the 
black  rubber  suits  necessary  to  protect  them  from 
the  drenching  spray,  and  looking  sombre  enough  to 
belong  in  the  pages  of  the  "  Inferno."  Above  her 
the  rocky  wall  overhung  threateningly,  as  if  about 
to  precipitate  itself  upon  the  slight  creature  beneath  ; 
but  a  stranger  had  once  assured  her  of  its  entire 
"soloddity,"  and  she  had  ever  since  been  sustained  in 
her  contemplation  of  it  by  the  recollection  of  this 
word.  Across  the  river  the  thickly-wooded  Cana- 
dian shore  was  one  gorgeous  blaze  of  color,  brilliant 
even  in  the  absence  of  sunshine;  Bella  could  dis- 
tinguish infinite  gradations  of  crimson  and  scarlet, 
brown,  russet,  orange,  olive,  and  gold,  interspersed 
by  cedar   and   hemlock    darkly  green  as  ever.     In 


ADRIFT.  ,Q, 

Bella's  immediate  vicinity  there  were  no  trees,  for  no 
spot  on  the  river  is  so  destitute  of  vegetation  as  this 
extremity  of  Goat  Island;  there  was  only  the  nar- 
row pathway  along  the  ledge,  tJie  bare  gray  wall 
above,  and  the  bare  gray  slope  beneath.  At  her 
right  hand,  and  within  a  few  yards,  the  American 
Fall  flung  itself  over  the  precipice  in  a  splendid 
prodigality  of  force ;  it  struck  the  rock  not  with  one 
continuous  unbroken  roar,  but  with  a  succession  of 
distinct  explosions,  as  if  some  gigantic  trip-ham- 
mer were  incessantly  pounding  and  booming.  To 
Bella  gazing  upward  the  sheet  of  water  seemed  to 
drop  straight  out  of  the  leaden  sky,  a  very  snow- 
drift for  whiteness ;  it  fell  in  one  mighty  mass,  was 
shattered  into  a  million  fragments  on  the  rocks,  rose 
in  a  magnificent  storm  of  spray,  and  finally  dashed 
and  whirled  and  tore  away  among  the  rocks  with 
inconceivable  fury  and  swiftness,  surging  around  and 
over  them,  and  returning  time  and  again  to  the  foot 
of  the  fall  in  vast  maelstroms  and  eddies.  Night 
and  day,  summer  and  winter,  a  strong  cold  wind 
sweeps  and  circles  about  the  spot;  indeed,  a  sub- 
aqueous retreat  behind  the  cataract,  through  which 
adventurous  tourists  walk,  clinging  to  each  other 
and  to  the  guide,  is  from  this  circumstance  named 
"  The  Cave  of  the  Winds."  Bella  would  not  have 
entered  its  dim  cool  depths  for  all  the  diamonds  that 
ever  shone. 

She  settled  herself  comfortably  upon  the  stone, 
and  bent  a  ruminative  gaze  upon  the  water  below. 
She  had  not  been  seated  there  more  than  ten  min- 
utes, when,  glancing  up,  she  saw  a  man  standing  in 

I        n  «7 


f: 


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It 


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194 


ADRIFT, 


•I 


the  lower  door-way  of  the  staircase  tower.  It  was 
Stephen  Brooks. 

"  If  you  are  not  glad  to  see  me,  shake  your  head, 
and  I'll  go  back !"  he  shouted.  But  she  only  smiled, 
and,  thus  encouraged,  he  advanced  within  speaking 
distance.     "  Are  you  glad  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  I'm  glad  it's  not  Mr.  Harvey," 
said  Bella. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  coming  too,  for  aught  you  know," 
said  Stephen,  making  careful  selection  of  a  seat. 

"  Oh,  no,  he's  not !     I  left  him  at  Miss  Forrester's." 

"  Poor  fellow !  She  will  show  him  her  herbarium  ; 
she  always  does.  She  has  shown  it  to  me  four 
times." 

"  I  suppose  there  was  something  new  each  time." 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Stephen  ;  "  there  were  some  speci- 
mens more  freshly  hideous  than  the  rest.  I  hate  a 
person,"  he  went  on,  reflectively,  "  who  takes  pleasure 
in  preserving  the  withered  skeletons  and  ghosts  of 
flowers.  I  know  a  man  who  is  making  a  collection 
of  the  ropes  used  in  hanging  murderers.  The  two 
pursuits  are  on  the  same  principle.  How  did  you 
ever  make  up  your  mind  to  come  down  those  stairs 
alone  ?  I  thought  it  required  the  taunts,  entreaties, 
persuasions  of  several  people  to  move  you." 

"  Oh,  I  can  be  brave  enough  when  there's  no  one 
near  to  be  annoyed  by  my  cowardice.  Did  you 
know  I  was  here  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  saw  you  driving  through  the  village.  I 
was  lunching  at  a  restaurant  at  the  Falls,  not  the 
Bridge.  I  couldn't  stand  the  moral  atmosphere  at 
Harvey's  :  it's  too  elevated." 


ADRIFT, 


195 


"  You  don't  find  the  air  at  all  rarefied  here,"  said 
Bella,  demurely. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that!  You  are  a  thousand 
times  better  than  Jerome  Harvey ;  you  remind  me 
of  my  mother,"  declared  Stephen,  with  the  evident 
intention  of  paying  the  highest  compliment  in  his 
power.  "  Yes,  I  followed  you,  and  when  I  saw  the 
horse  tied  up  there,  I  knew  you  must  have  desceiided 
the  stairs,  incredible  as  it  seemed.  Why  did  you 
perform  that  heroic  fept  ?" 

"  I  wished  to  be  alone." 

"  It's  my  turn  to  be  affronted ;  but  I  guess  I 
won't." 

"  I  had  just  begun  to  think,  when  you  interrupted 
me. 

"  Won't  you  begin  again,  and  give  me  the  benefit  ?" 

"  Well,  then,  the  summer  is  over." 

"  That  news  is  a  month  old." 

"  And  if  I  had  stayed  in  Buffalo  I  should  know 
Italian  by  now." 

"  You  have  studied  a  good  many  things  here, — 
geology,  literature,  humanity." 

Bella  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  gravely  troubled. 
"  It  has  been  a  very  idle  time,"  she  mourned. 

"  Yes,  it  has,"  confessed  Stephen.  "  We  have  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  amuse  ourselves,  like  the  people 
in  an  English  country  house  novel.  It's  been  a  very 
un-American  summer." 

"  Aren't  you  a  little  ashamed  of  it  ?" 

"  Not  at  all.  I  wish  all  the  men  and  women  who 
are  harassed  to  death  by  business,  study,  society,  by 
noisy  children,  meddling  neighbors,  worthless  ser- 


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iq5  adrift. 

vants,  could  spend  such  a  summer  as  this.  It  has 
done  me  good." 

•'  Because  you  were  harassed  to  death  by — what  ?" 

"  By  nothing,"  laughed  Stephen.  *'  I  have  always 
taken  things  very  easily ;  I  have  never  been  through 
any  rapids  whatever." 

Bella  smiled  an  acknowledgment  of  the  allusion. 
"  I  am  going  home  in  a  day  or  so,"  she  remarked. 

*'  May  I  call  on  you  this  winter  ?  I  will  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  Buffalo  for  that  especial  purpose  if  you 
would  like  to  see  me." 

"Frankly,  I  don't  think  I  should,"  said  Bella. 
"You  belong  to  summer  and  Niagara ;  there  would 
be  something  incongruous  in  meeting  you  under 
other  conditions." 

"  If  Harvey  marries  Miss  Forrester  you  will  natu- 
rally see  a  good  deal  of  me.  He  could  hardly  exist 
without  me." 

"  Not  even  with  a  1  'any  bride  as  a  substitute ? 
But  Miss  Forrester  will  not  accept  him." 

"  She  might  do  worse." 

"  Yes ;  for  instance,  it  will  be  worse  not  to  marry 
any  one,  but  simply  to  stay  on  here  alone  through 
the  long,  dull,  frozen  months." 

"  While  you  are  in  the  giddy  round  of  fashion  and 
pleasure.  I  hear  that  Buffalo  is  quite  metropolitan 
in  its  gayeties." 

"  You  might  spend  years  in  New  York,"  said  Bella, 
quick  to  resent  this  tone  of  patronage,  "  without 
meeting  as  many  agreeable  individuals  as  you  will  in 
a  single  season  in  Buffalo.  Our  people  are  simply 
charming !" 


ADRIFT. 


197 


"  I  can  readily  believe  it.  " 

"We  are  musical,  dramatic,  literary,"  pursued  Bella. 
"  The  girls  are  all  pretty,  many  of  them  beautiful ; 
the  matrons  are  gracious  as  queens;  the  men  are 
courteous  and  hospitable."  She  paused  a  moment, 
frowning  with  thought.  "  I'm  trying  to  recall  some 
one  of  my  acquaintance  who  is  not  talented,  or 
handsome,  or  accomplished,  but  it's  impossible." 

"  Happy  city !"  said  Stephen.  "  The  winter  weather 
there  is  rather  severe,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Severe  ?  Not  in  the  least.  There's  a  good  deal 
of  snow,  to  be  sure ;  but  that  only  covers  up  the 
ground  and  keeps  it  warm.  You  should  walk  down 
Delaware  Avenue  some  night  when  the  trees  are  all 
bending  iow  with  their  snowy  burden,  and  every 
branch  and  tiniest  twig  is  sparkling  with  frost  in  the 
white  radiance  of  the  moon !" 

"  Like  a  Christmas  card  sprinkled  with  mica,"  sug- 
gested Stephen. 

"  Very  poetically  expressed, — thanks !"  said  Bella. 
"  I  remember  one  evening  last  winter  Mrs.  Bromley 
and  I  were  walking  on  Main  Street  about  six  o'clock, 
when  it  began  to  snow.  There  was  no  wind,  and 
the  soft  feathery  flakes  fell  straight  down,  thickly 
and  heavily.  The  stores  were  not  closed,  and  all 
the  lights  shone  out  and  struck  through  the  storm 
in  the  loveliest  mellow  glow,  till  it  seemed  as  if  we 
were  walking  in  a  great  rosy  pearl !" 

"That's  pretty,"  said  Stephen.  "But  it  might 
happen  anywhere.  Buffalo  has  not  a  monopoly  of 
the  phenomena  of  snow  and  ice." 

"  I  don't  care ;  we  have  more  of  them  than  any 

17^ 


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198 


ADRIFT. 


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other  city,"  declared  Bella.  "  How  the  wind  is 
rising !     It  reminds  me  of  home." 

*•  It  w  rising,"  agreed  Stephen,  'And  it  reminds 
me  of  home,  too, — namely,  that  we  ought  to  get 
there  as  soon  as  possible.  Let  us  go  before  the  rain 
comes." 

They  rose,  but  had  scarcely  gained  their  feet  when 
a  tremendous  gust  swept  along  the  cliff  and  caused 
them  to  stagger  under  it. 

"  We  must  hurry,"  said  Stephen.  "  The  storm  is 
almost  upon  us.     Take  my  arm." 

To  his  amazement  Bella  shook  her  head.  "  I  am 
not  going  into  that  tower  in  this  wind !"  she  an- 
nounced, calmly. 

"  Why,  what  else  can  we  do  ?"  asked  Stephen, 
aghast.  "  We  shall  be  wet  to  the  skin  if  we  stay 
here;  we  might  even  be  blown  off  this  ledge;  and 
if  that  rock  above  us  is  ever  going  to  fall,  this  will 
be  the  time." 

*' It  won't  fall;  I  have  perfect  faith  in  its  'sol od- 
dity,' "  said  Bella.  "  And  I  have  no  doubt  that  that 
tower  is  swinging  like  a  cradle.  You  can  go  if  you 
like ;  I  shall  not  be  one  bit  afraid  here." 

**  You  know  you  would  go  mad  with  terror,"  said 
Stephen,  with  anxious  familiarity.  "  At  least,  let  us 
stand  in  the  door-way ;  it  will  partly  shelter  us." 

"  No !"  said  Bella,  inflexibly,  and  the  young  man 
was  obliged  to  yield.  Another  gust  came  whistling 
about  them,  with  a  blast  as  of  a  thousand  trumpets; 
the  sky  turned  from  gray  to  almost  inky  blackness, 
and  in  another  instant  the  rain  fell. 

For  a  few  moments  they  were  literally  stunned 


ADRIFT. 


199 


and  breathless  from  the  terrific  violence  of  its  de- 
scent ;  it  seemed  scarcely  less  dense  than  the  great 
fall  beside  them.  It  beat  in  a  torrent  against  the 
rock  overhead,  and  dashed  off  again  with  redoubled 
fury.  The  narrow  ledge  became  in  two  minutes  a 
brawling  brook,  and  little  muddy  cascades  tumbled 
from  it  over  the  slope.  The  wind  howled  and 
shrieked  in  a  sort  of  demoniac  rage ;  if  it  lulled  one 
single  second,  it  was  only  to  gather  itself  like  a 
tiger  and  spring  to  its  goal  with  fresh  ferocity.  The 
wild  lightning  rent  the  heavens  into  shreds ;  it 
darted  at  Stephen  and  Bella  as  if  it  would  snatch 
the  very  secrets  from  their  hearts;  it  ceased,  and 
the  blackness  of  death  dropped  upon  the  earth ;  it 
flashed  forth  again  and  shrivelled  up  the  darkness 
in  its  angry  glare.  The  thunder  seemed  rather  a 
weight  than  a  sound;  it  crashed  and  roared  and 
rolled  upon  them  as  if  it  would  crush  them  to  the 
earth.  Amid  all  these  Titanic  forces  the  great  cata- 
ract beside  them  boomed  forth  its  unchanging 
cannon-like  stroke. 

Stephen  threw  his  arm  about  Bella ;  she  clasped 
her  hands  on  his  shoulder  and  hid  her  face  on  them. 
He  was  conscious  of  but  one  thing, — that  they  were 
alone ;  in  an  open  boat  at  sea  tney  would  have  been 
less  alone,  less  closely  shut  into  a  world  of  their  own. 
Thkough  the  blinding  sheet  of  rain  they  could  not 
see  the  Canadian  shore,  the  river  below,  the  fall 
beside  them,  scarcely  the  ground  they  stood  upon. 
They  were  alone  ;  it  was  upon  his  arm  she  leaned,  to 
his  face  she  lifted  her  terrified  eyes  for  reassurance. 

"  Bella  i"  he  murmured,  with  he  knew  not  what 


1 


H 


hi 


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: 


I  ; 


200 


ADRIFT. 


of  strange  exultation  in  his  voice.  "  Bella,  darling ! 
are  you  frightened  ?" 

Low  as  he  spoke,  she  heard  him,  and  shook  her 
head.  "  I  must  go !"  she  cried,  and  faintly  strove  to 
move  away.  He  detained  her,  and  indeed  she  could 
not  have  withstood  the  tempest  unaided  a  moment. 
He  sought  for  words  to  soothe  her ;  they  rushed  to 
his  lips,  but  there  were  none  that  he  dared  utter.  A 
wild  excitement  held  him  thrall ;  the  warfare  of  the 
elements,  the  stress  and  tumult  of  the  cataract  itself 
seemed  to  be  raging  in  his  soul. 

Bella  looked  up  into  his  white  agitated  face.  "  Oh, 
don't  speak !"  she  cried,  and  she  put  her  fingers 
against  his  lips.  "  Let  me  go  away !  No,  no,  I  will 
be  quiet ;  only  don't  look  at  me,  don't  speak  to  me  !" 

Stephen  caught  her  hand  in  his  own  and  kissed  it 
again  and  again ;  but  he  obeyed  her  and  did  not  try 
to  speak. 

The  storm  continued  with  cyclonic  force ;  the  in- 
constant wind  at  one  moment  pressed  Bella  closer  to 
Stephen's  supporting  arm ;  at  the  next  it  seemed 
trying  to  seize  her  out  of  his  grasp.  It  was  many 
minutes  before  there  was  the  least  perceptible  abate- 
ment; then,  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  the  tempest 
passed  away, 

"  Moaning,  and  calling  out  of  other  lands," 


and  swept  onward  over  the  river,  to  devastate  and 
ruin  or  to  brighten  and  vivify  everything  in  its  path. 
Here,  its  work  was  done. 
''■  It's  over,"  said  Bella.     "  I'm  tired."     Her  head 


ADRIFT. 


201 


drooped  languidly,  and  Stephen,  stooping  to  look 
into  her  face,  saw  that  it  was  very  pale.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  recovered  herself,  and  drew  away,  her 
cheeks  burning ;  she  felt  that  she  could  never  meet 
his  eyes  again.  Her  kilted  woollen  skirt  was  so 
drenched  and  heavy  that  she  could  hardly  move,  and 
Stephen,  stooping,  took  it  in  his  hands  and  wrung  it 
tightly. 

**  There !  No  laundress  could  do  better !"  he  ex- 
claimed, uttering  any  nonsense  in  order  to  dissipate 
the  cruelly  conscious  silence.  "  Now  you  see,  if  I 
were  really  a  man  in  an  English  novel  I  should 
have  a  flask  of  brandy  in  my  pocket.  They  always 
do.  It  would  keep  you  from  getting  chilled.  We 
can  get  some  at  a  hotel." 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  Bella,  scornfully,  "  that 
I'm  going  to  drive  up  t">  a  hotel  in  this  guise?"  She 
bestowed  sundry  coaxing  pats  and  twists  upon  her 
hat,  but  nothing  could  reclaim  it  from  its  soggy 
shapelessness.  "  We  shall  drive  straight  to  Diana's  ; 
though  I  hesitate  to  face  even  Diana  and  Mr.  Har- 
vey looking  so." 

She  did  not  really  look  so  ill ;  her  garments  were 
in  hopeless  ruin,  but  her  face  was  girlishly  fresh  and 
rosy,  and  no  rain  could  subdue  the  curliness  of  her 
hair,  which  crinkled  damply  abouc  her  forehead. 
Stephen,  however,  ventured  upon  no  compliments. 

"  Did  you  notice  the  cataract  through  it  all  ?"  he 
asked.  "  Everything  else  felt  the  influence  of  the 
gale  in  some  measure;  the  fall  alone  was  no  more 
affected  by  it  than  the  ocean  .vould  have  been.  It 
made  me  realize  how  eternally  unchangeable  it  is. 


\ 


\       \ 


202 


ADRIFT. 


But  come !  the  water  is  dripping  off  these  rocks  as 
if  it  were  still  raining." 

They  made  their  way  slowly  along  the  slippery 
path  and  up  the  spiral  staircase.  At  the  top  they 
found  the  horse  patiently  waiting,  and  Stephen  drove 
him  home  at  his  rapidest  gait. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  he  asked,  dubiously,  "  that 
Miss  Forrester  has  any  first-class  brandy  in  the 
house?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Bella.  "  She  keeps  it  in  the 
corner  cupboard  in  the  dining-roc'm  with  her  black- 
berry wine." 

"  That's  good !"  said  Stephen,  relieved.  "  Now 
promise  me  that  you  will  take  something  hot  as  soon 
as  you  get  into  the  house." 

"  I  will,"  said  Bella.  "  And  I  want  you  to  promise 
me  something  in  turn, — promise  me  that  you  will  go 
away  at  once !"  She  felt  the  humiliation  of  making 
this  request,  but  no  evasion  of  it  was  possible  for 
her.  Stephen  at  least  did  not  leave  her  in  suspense 
as  to  his  answer. 

"  Of  course  I  will !"  he  replied,  instantly.  "  I've 
been  idle  long  enough,  and  it's  kind  of  you  to  send 
me  to  work  again.  I'll  tell  Jerome  I  am  called  back 
to  New  York,  and  I  will  make  my  adieux  to  Miss 
Forrester  now,  and  go  to-night." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Bella.  She  could  not  add  an- 
other syllable;  but  when  they  had  reached  Diana's 
and  were  walking  side  by  side  up  to  the  house, — 

"  Won't  you  say  a  word — one  word — of  farewell  ?" 
asked  the  young  man,  huskily. 

"  Good-by !"  she  whispered. 


II 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


I) 


"  This  is  a  place  of  refuge  and  repose. 

Where  are  the  poor,  the  old,  the  weary  wight, 
The  scorned,  the  humble,  and  the  n-^an  of  woes, 

Who  wept  for  morn,  and  sighed  again  for  night? 
Their  sighs  at  last  have  ceased,  and  here  they  sleep 
Beside  their  scorners,  and  forget  to  weep." 

John  Bethune. 

Bella  Forrester  felt  as  if  she  had  been  walking^, 
with  song  and  laughter,  reckless  of  her  going,  along 
the  crater  of  a  volcano  whose  existence  she  had  not 
suspected.  A  few  steps  out  of  the  beaten  path  had 
revealed  to  her  the  awful  peril  that  menaced  her,  and 
she  had  drawn  back,  shuddering,  from  the  abyss; 
but  a  sense  of  danger  yet  encompassed  her  and  was 
thrillingly  present  to  her. 

When  a  woman  learns  that,  against  all  the  dictates 
of  law  and  prudence,  a  man  loves  her,  she  sees  in 
one  single  glance  of  lightning-like  comprehensive- 
ness the  shame,  the  folly,  the  madness  of  it,  and  is 
shocked  and  grieved  by  turns ;  but  she  also  discerns 
that  he  has  laid  at  her  feet  the  highest  homage  of 
which  he  is  capable,  and  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she 
easily  condones  his  offence.  However  far  she  may 
be  from  admitting  it  in  words,  she  is  secretly  flattered 
by  the  tribute  to  her  charms,  and  finds  it  only  natural 
that  a  man  should  succumb  to  them. 

Bella,  therefore,  had   not  in  her  most  indignant 

20  ■» 


'H 


!'l 


lil 


ih 


\m  I 


204 


ADRIFT. 


If*' 


11 « 

—•1 


Mil 


j-^i 


1  H 


moods  a  thought  of  blame  for  Stephen.  He  had 
had  nothing  to  occupy  his  mind  all  summer,  and  it 
seemed  to  her,  upon  consideration,  entirely  fitting 
and  to  be  expected  that  he  should  fall  in  love  with 
some  one.  Of  course  Diana  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  no  man  in  his  senses  could  be  captivated  by 
her;  and  Bella  herself  had  been  the  only  alternative. 
She  thought  it  rather  a  pity  that  he  had  no  prin- 
ciples of  duty  and  honor  which  would  have  made  it 
impossible  to  covet  his  neighbor's  wife;  but  then, 
comparing  Mr.  Brooks  with  Mr.  Harvey,  who  pos- 
sessed such  principles  in  a  marked  degree,  Bella  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  that  they  added  no  attractive- 
ness to  their  owner's  personality.  If  Stephen  was 
not  so  rigidly  upright  as  Jerome,  he  was  infinitely 
more  agreeable. 

For  herself,  she  felt  that  no  reprobation  could  be 
too  severe,  too  bitter.  It  was  incredible  that  she 
could  have  gone  on  so  blindly  unconscious  fA  the 
trend  of  afifairs.  A  child  could  not  have  been  more 
ignorant ;  and  her  ignorance  was  wilful,  culpable,  for 
she  had  been  warned  by  Viviette,  by  her  own  in- 
stinct, by  looks,  tones,  even  words  of  Stephen's, 
which  she  had  pretended  to  herself  were  only  the 
small  change  of  sentiment  current  among  all  young 
people  who  are  well  pleased  with  each  other.  And 
to  this  complexion  had  things  come  at  last ! — he  had 
kissed  her  hand,  had  called  her  "  Darling !"  and  had 
bent  upon  her  a  gaze  indescribable  even  to  herself, 
fuller  of  tenderness,  of  passion,  of  longing,  than  any 
words  could  be !  It  had  taken  an  emotional  earth- 
quake to  rouse  her  from  her  trance ;   but  she  was 


ADRIFT. 


205 


awake  now,  thank  heaven !  and  she  would  never  see 
him  again. 

It  was  not,  however,  without  a  chill  pang  of  regret 
and  disappointment  that  she  heard  of  Stephen's  de- 
parture the  day  succeeding  the  storm.  She  recog- 
nized this  regret  with  wonder  and  alarm.  "  That  I 
should  sufifer  because  any  man  on  earth  comes  or 
goes,  lives  or  dies !"  she  thought.  Yet  she  persuaded 
herself  that  after  all  it  was  not  strange ;  he  ha  been 
for  months  her  constant  companion,  he  had  sur- 
rounded her  with  an  atmosphere  of  appreciation  and 
sympathy,  and  it  was  inevitable  that  the  withdrawal 
of  his  presence  should  cause  a  keen  pain.  For  sev- 
eral days  after  he  had  gone  her  nerves  were  in  a 
state  of  cruel  tension  ;  every  step  on  the  walk,  every 
ring  at  the  bell,  she  hoped  was  his ;  she  felt  that  if 
he  would  but  return  for  an  hour  of  commonplace 
talk  it  would  obscure  the  burning  memory  of  that 
last  interview. 

But  when  she  knew  that  this  was  not  to  be,  she 

resolved  to  put  the  whole  episode  away  and  to  dwell 

only  in  the  future.     She  began  her  preparations  to 

return  home,  and  for  hours  prosecuted  them  with 

feverish  vigor,  taking  a  certain  pride  in  the  strength 

of  mind  which  enabled  her  to  lock  the  past  summer 

as  it  were  into  a  casket,  and  fling  the  key  into  the 

depths  of  oblivion.     But   her   strength  was  purely 

factitious,  and  gave  out  almost  before  she  had  time 

to  rejoice  in  it.     The  reaction  took  the  form  of  a 

deadly  apathy,  so  benumbing,  so  paralyzing,  that  all 

her  energies  seemed  killed  at  a  single  blow.     "When 

this  came  upon  her  she  made  no  attempt  to  fight 

18 


^\ 


m 


V 


206 


ADRIFT, 


against  it;  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  trunk 
she  was  packing,  and  tears  forced  themselves 
through  her  closed  eyelids. 

"  My  dear  Bella!  what  is  the  matter  now  ?"  asked 
Diar.a,  in  a  tone  of  patient  remonstrance. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  !  I  envy  you,  Diana ;  you  arc 
never  moved.  I've  never  seen  you  angry,  tired,  sad, 
happy.  You  are  an  epitome  of  all  frozen  and  frigid 
things." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Diana,  with  unwonted  meekness. 
"  But  I  am  beginning  to  be  sorry  for  it,  beginning  to 
ask  myself  if  I  really  like  to  have  such  a  placid,  un- 
excitable  temperament." 

"  No !  Are  you  truly  ?"  cried  Bella,  roused  to  a 
genuine  interest  in  this  psychological  phenomenon. 
"  Of  course  I'm  not  sure,  Diana,  that  you  can  change 
your  nature  at  a  moment's  notice  if  you  decide  that 
you  don't  like  it ;  but  I  believe  that  your  feeling  is 
the  beginning  of  better  things  for  you." 

"  Better  things !"  echoed  Diana.  "  You're  so  in- 
consistent, Bella!  Only  a  moment  ago  you  were 
envying  my  stoicism.  And  indeed  I  prefer  it  myself 
to  your  chronic  indulgence  in  tears,  tempers,  grief, 
remorse,  and  what  not.  You're  too  high-strung; 
you  are  always  on  the  verge  of  hysterics.  What,  for 
example,  has  set  you  off  crying  now  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know !"  said  Bella,  for  the  second 
time.  "  Only  I'm  tired ;  I've  been  resting  all  sum- 
mer, and  yet  I'm  tired  still.  I  meant  to  go  home 
to-morrow ;  I  ought  to  and  I  want  to,  for  I  know  I 
shall  be  happier  there.  I'm  like  those  invalids  who 
arv^  perpetually  exhausting  the  beneficial  influences 


ADRIFT. 


207 


of  one  resort,  and  perpetually  moving  on  to  find  an- 
other. But  I  can't  go;  I  just  want  to  lie  down  and 
cry  myself  to  sleep." 

"  You  are  lonely, — you  miss  that  Mr.  Brooks," 
said  Diana,  with  the  air  of  imparting  information. 
"  I  always  thought  it  foolish  of  you  to  depend  so 
much  on  his  society,  since  in  the  nature  of  things  the 
intimacy  could  not  last.  However,  if  you  don't  want 
to  go  home,  there's  no  earthly  reason  why  you 
should." 

"  John  needs  me,"  said  Bella. 

"Gracious,  Bella!  that's  what  the  Scotch  call 
'fey,' — doing  something  utterly  unexpected  and  un- 
like yourself.  The  idea  of  your  caring  whether 
John  needs  you  or  not!  You  must  just  stay  here  as 
long  as  you  like.  Wednesday,  you  know,  I  myself 
expect  to  start  on  a  little  journey ;  but  if  you  would 
be  afraid  to  stay  alone  in  the  house  with  Maggie,  I 
will  put  it  ofif." 

"  I  shall  not  mind  being  alone  at  all,"  Bella 
declared,  and  it  was  arranged  that  Diana  should 
depart  Wednesday  evening  and  return  Saturday 
morning,  and  that  Bella  should  go  to  Buffalo  Satur- 
day afternoon. 

Accordingly,  late  Wednesday  afternoon  the  two 
young  women  drove  in  the  phaeton  to  the  depot, 
and  after  seeing  Diana  safely  upon  the  train  Bella 
returned  alone  to  the  house. 

Diana  was  going  to  the  little  Pennsylvania  village 
in  whose  graveyard  her  father  and  mother  were 
lying.  It  was  inconveniently  situated  as  rega'ded 
railways;  she  was   obliged  to  go  first  to  Buffalo, 


\ 


■  %  . 


M 


208 


ADRIFT. 


K  . 


travel  all  night,  and  be  set  down  in  the  early  dawn 
at  a  point  some  ten  miles  from  her  final  destination, 
but  she  was  an  experienced  traveller,  and  regarded 
the  difficulties  of  this  journey  as  very  trifling  mat- 
lers.  She  remained  with  Mrs.  Bromley  in  Buffiilo 
Wednesday  and  all  day  Thursday,  doing  some  shop- 
ping; Thursday  night  she  reposed  comfortably  in  a 
sleeping-car,  and  when  on  Friday  morning  the  train 
stopped  at  the  city  where  she  was  to  leave  it,  she 
walked  to  the  nearest  hotel,  repaired  the  scarcely 
perceptible  ravages  of  travel  upon  her  toilet,  break- 
fasted, engaged  a  buggy  and  quiet  horse  for  the  day, 
and  drove  leisurely  out  into  the  country. 

It  was  a  very  melancholy  pilgrimage.  Every  trace 
of  the  two  poor  young  people  had  apparently  been 
swept  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  They  had  been  of 
no  account  while  they  lived,  and  they  were  of  even 
less  importance  now  that  they  had  been  thirty  years 
dead.  Mrs.  Pryor  was  also  dead,  and  so  were  the 
persons  who  had  lived  nearest  to  her  parents'  house. 
The  double  tragedy  survived  in  the  minds  of  a  {<i\Sy 
but  only  as  a  dim  and  shadowy  tradition.  The 
waves  of  the  ocean  of  life  had  many  times  washed 
over  the  spot  where  those  two  ill-fated  barks  went 
down. 

r-ana  felt  sick  at  heart,  but  she  kept  bravely  on 
at  her  quest  all  day,  seeking  information  or  relics  of 
her  family.  It  was  all  in  vain  :  not  a  picture,  orna- 
ment, or  piece  of  furniture  that  had  belonged  to 
Rufus  Clark  could  she  discover.  At  four  o'clock 
she  went  to  the  cemetery,  certain  that  what  she 
sought  there  would  at  any  rate  be  found. 


1 
i 


ADRIFT, 


209 


It  was  situated  on  a  hill,  and  other  hills  rose  on 
every  side  like  great  sea-billows,  some  brown  with 
stubble,  some  richly  veiled  with  brilliant  autumn 
woods.  The  graveyard  was  small  and  very  nearly 
filled;  Diana  thought  it  would  be  difficult  to  find 
space  for  another  resting-place.  She  had  to  push 
away  thtf^ig  grass,  "beautiful  uncut  hair  of  graves," 
from  many  an  old  tombstone,  and  scrape  off  the  moss 
from  more  than  one  inscription,  before  she  deciphered 
that  which  marked  her  parents'  last  home.  It  re- 
corded simply  the  names  and  the  bare  facts  of  birth 
and  death ;  but  she  read  between  the  lines,  and  all 
that  by-gone  care  and  pain  became  real  to  her.  She 
yearned  to  comfort  those  two  who  had  so  long  been 
beyond  need  of  comfort ;  it  seemed  to  her,  that  had 
they  lived,  she  and  they  might  have  been  a  great  joy 
to  each  other.  She  would  have  loved  them  from  her 
babyhood,  and  her  life  would  not  have  been  the  self- 
ish, barren  thing  it  was.  Tears  of  filial  tenderness 
suffused  her  eyes;  she  sunk  slowly  to  her  knees 
upon  the  yellow  carpet  of  leaves  which  the  kindly 
trees  had  flung  over  the  graves,  as  the  robins  did 
over  the  lost  children.  She  drooped  her  head 
against  the  stone ;  her  heart  ached  for  the  precious 
home  love  she  had  never  known,  and  one  great  sob 
shook  her  slight  frame. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  at  a  rustling  of  the  leaves.  A 
man  was  approaching, — it  was  Jerome  Harvey.  She 
looked  at  him  across  the  little  graveyard  with  eyes 
retrospectively  gentle. 

"  Did  you  think  me  a  ghost  for  a  moment  ?"  he 

asked,  when  he  was  quite  near, 
o  18* 


\ 


h  ; 


I    ; 


I  ^ 


N^ 


,  \ 


t  t 


fl!^ 


210 


ADRIFT. 


\  t 


\    r 


\W\\ 


"  Oh,  no !  I  was  not  at  all  startled.  It  seemed 
quite  right  and  fitting  that  you  should  be  here.  It 
is  only  now  that  I  have  time  to  reflect  that  it  seems 
surprising." 

"  That  is  a  hopeful  sign,"  said  the  young  man,  his 
face  beaming.  He  extended  his  hand  and  assisted 
her  to  rise.  "  Your  feeling  augurs  that  you  do  care 
a  little  for  me  in  spite  of  yourself;  if  you  did  not, 
you  would  have  thought  my  coming  the  most  singu- 
lar and  uncalled-for  interference." 

Diana  sighed ;  her  mood  of  tenderness  had  not 
yet  dissolved.  "  Oh,  I  dou't  care  for  you,"  she  said, 
mournfully.  "  I  shall  never  care  for  any  one.  I  wish 
I  could.  It  isn't  in  me.  But  I  think  I  resent  your 
caring  for  me  less  than  usual  to-day.  My  heart  is 
softened.  You  see?"  She  pointed  down  at  the 
graves,  and  her  eyes  filled  again  with  tears. 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Jerome,  reverently.  He  stood 
a  moment  in  silence  with  bent  and  uncovered  head. 
"  Oh,  Diana  1"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  passion  of  vica- 
rious remorse,  "  this  spot  is  a  shrine  to  you,  a  place 
for  p' JUS  and  holy  thoughts.  Think  what  it  must 
be  to  me  !  But  for  my  father's  wicked  treachery 
those  two  would  be  living  still,  prosperous  and 
happy.  If  I  spend  my  whole  life  trying  to  do  good 
I  cannot  nullify  his  evil  influence." 

"  Do  not  take  it  so  to  heart,"  said  Diana.  "  You 
ought  to  be  thankful  that  you  did  not  inherit  his 
nature.  And  as  for  them,  their  trouble  is  all  over 
now ;  they  have  long  been  at  peace." 

"But  you  are  not  at  peace;  you  are  sad,  lonely, 
bereaved  of  the  affection  which  is  your  due.     Dear 


ADRIFT. 


211 


Diana,  if  you   would  only  let   me   make  it    up  to 
you!" 

** Oh,  are  you  going  to  begin  at  that  again?"  cried 
Diana,  distressed. 

"  I  must,  Diana;  I  can  never  give  it  up  till  you 
say  Yes  or  No  definitely." 

*'  Why,  I've  said  No  definitely  a  dozen  times !" 

"  Well,  till  you  say  Yes,  then.  You  don't  know 
how  I  long  to  protect  you " 

"I  am  not  aware,"  said  Diana,  primly,  "of  needing 
any  special  protection." 

"  Did  you  think  I  would  let  you  come  all  this  dis- 
tance quite  alone  ?  I  was  in  the  smoking-car,  ready 
to  be  your  guardian  angel  on  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion." 

"  I  have  travelled  all  over  Europe  and  my  own 
country,  and  do  you  think  I  am  to  be  daunted  by  a 
few  hours'  ride  ?"  inquired  Diana.  "  May  I  ask  how 
you  came  out  from  the  city  ?" 

"  I  rode  out  on  a  farmer's  wagon." 

"  Yes  ;  and  how  do  you  expect  to  get  back  ?" 

"  Why,  I  thought,  Diana,  that  you  would  be  will- 
ing to  give  me  a  lift  in  your  buggy  if  I  were  real 
good,  as  the  children  say." 

"  And  so,  perhaps,  I  might ;  but  you  are  not  good." 
She  paused  to  fasten  a  bunch  of  gold  and  scarlet 
leaves  in  the  breast  of  her  dark-blue  gown ;  then 
looked  at  him  without  the  least  suspicion  of  archness 
in  her  brown  eyes.  "  You  must  not  talk  in  that 
foolish  way  any  more,"  she  went  on,  gravely.  "  Do 
you  suppose  that  it  will  be  agreeable  for  me  to  drive 
ten  miles  beside  a  rejected  suitor  ?" 


: 


*'l 


,X 


212 


ADRIFT. 


m 


"  It  is  your  own  fault  if  he  is  not  accepted,"  said 
Jerome. 

"  I  am  quite  serious,"  said  Diana.  "  I  have  told 
you  I  do  not  mean  to  marry,  and  I  do  not  think  it  is 
exactly  fair  of  you  Lo  repeat  your  proposal  whenever 
you  have  a  chance." 

"  All  is  fair  in  love." 

"  Your  having  a  passing  fancy  for  me " 

"  It's  not  a  fancy  at  all, — it  is  my  first  love,  my 
last  love." 

"  Does  not  give  you  the  right  to  question  my  de- 
cision." 

"  Certainly  it  does,"  affirmed  Jerome.  "  It  is 
vitally  necessary  to  my  happiness  that  you  should 
alter  your  mind,  and  I  shall  use  every  means  in  my 
power  to  persuade  you  to  do  so.  You  are  lonely 
and  sad,  Diana.  What  is  the  use  of  denying  it? 
You  were  weeping  when  I  approached." 

"  More  shame  to  you,  then,  for  intruding  !" 

"I  longed  to  fold  you  in  my  arms,  to  wipe  your 
dear  eyes,  to  forbid  you  ever  to  weep  again." 

"  Can  you  bring  back  my  father  and  mother  from 
the  dead  ?"  asked  Diana,  scornfully. 

"  No,  but  I  can  act  as  their  substitute ;  I  can  sup- 
ply the  affection  they  would  have  given  you,"  said 
Jerome.  '"  Intruding,' you  said?  Did  you  think  I 
was  going  to  let  you  make  your  solitary  visit  to 
these  graves,  and  let  you  kneel  by  them  alone  and 
feel  that  the  only  creatures  who  had  ever  loved  you 
were  now  but  earthy  dust?  It  would  have  killed 
you !" 

"  Oh,  no !     I  am  not  so  sensitive  as  you,  Mrs,  For- 


ADRIFT. 


213 


rester,  Mr.  Brooks,  and  the  rest  of  the  world,"  said 
Diana.  "  You  might  have  trusted  me  to  go  through 
the  ordeal  with  unruffleil  Jilm.  All  the  same,  your 
impulse  was  generous  and  thoughtful,  and  I  thank 
you.  And  now,  please  say  no  more  on  the  subject 
of  me  and  my  characteristics." 

"  Well,"  said  Jerome,  "  for  the  present  I  suppose  I 
must  obey  you.  But  it  is  with  the  greatest  reluc- 
tance. For  my  part,  I  cannot  understand  why  a 
woman  should  so  persistently  set  her  face  against 
marriage." 

"'  I  presume  there  are  a  great  many  things  you 
cannot  understand,"  said  Diana,  serenely.  "  '^o 
change  the  subject,  is  it  not  pitiful  that  these  poor 
leaves  in  my  button-hole  are  the  only  mementos  of 
my  father  and  mother  that  I  can  take  away  with 
me?" 

"  Nothing  could  be  prettier  than  they,"  said  Je- 
rome, noting  with  approval  the  brightness  they  lent 
to  her  quiet  attire.  "And  now, — I  hate  to  hurry 
you,  but  it  is  about  time  we  were  going." 

"  Very  well,"  acquiesced  Diana.  She  gazed  in- 
tently on  the  scene  around  her,  anxious  to  photo- 
graph it  on  her  memory,  then  passed  with  the  young 
man  out  of  the  enclosure.  They  entered  the  buggy 
and  drove  away  in  the  direction  of  the  town ;  the 
early  dusk  fell,  and  the  hunter's  moon,  pale  and 
slender,  hung  low  in  the  sky  before  them.  Reach- 
ing the  city,  they  went  to  the  hotel  where  Diana  had 
breakfasted,  and  dined  together  at  a  little  table  glit- 
tering with  silver  and  crystal,  in  a  corner  of  the  large 
dining-room,      Diana   had    never   found   herself  in 


it 


\M 


\-\  i 


214 


ADRIFT. 


Mi 


circumstances  of  such  grave  impropriety,  and  she 
regarded  the  situation  with  the  severest  disapproval. 
She  felt  that  her  reputation  would  be  sullied  beyond 
repair  were  the  escapade  to  become  known ;  but  she 
could  not  resist  the  universal  fascination  of  wrong- 
doing, and,  while  inwardly  confessing  herself  a  guilty 
wretch,  yet  continued  to  enjoy  herself  in  unchape- 
roned  freedom.  They  dallied  luxuriously  over  their 
repast,  Jerome  finding  his  companion's  silence  more 
charming  than  other  women's  talk,  and  when  it  was 
at  last  concluded,  they  walked  slowly  to  the  depot. 
There  they  said  good-night,  Diana  retiring  into  the 
sleeping-car,  while  Jerome  preferred  a  tentative  re- 
pose in  the  smoking-car. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  a  shock  rp.a 
through  the  train,  which  instantly  slackened  speed 
and  soon  came  to  a  stand-still.  There  were  the  usual 
inquiries  as  to  the  cause  of  the  disturbance,  uttered 
in  keys  varying  from  frantic  terror  to  sleepy  indiffer- 
ence. Jerome  was  at  the  door  of  the  sleeping-car 
almost  before  the  train  stopped,  and  presently  Diana 
came  out,  fully  dressed,  and  perfectly  tranquil. 

"A  wheel  has  broken,  that  is  all,"  he  told  her. 
"  It  will  only  delay  us  an  hour  or  so.  Won't  you 
come  out  for  a  little  walk  ?" 

She  hesitated,  and  mentally  declared  several 
times  that  it  was  quite  out  of  the  question.  This 
had  its  customary  effect  of  quieting  her  scruples,  and 
presently  she  allowed  him  to  assist  her  in  springing 
lightly  to  the  ground,  and  they  walked  to  and  fro 
upon  the  track  for  an  hour.  No  other  passengers 
preferred  the  bracing  frostiness  of  the  October  night 


ADRIFT. 


215 


air  to  the  warm  shelter  of  the  coaches,  and  they  were 
alone.  At  a  little  distance  from  the  locomotive  they 
passed  out  of  the  glare  of  i*;s  head-light  around  a 
curve  in  the  track,  and  were  in  a  still  deeper  solitude, 
with  the  whispermg  woods  on  either  hand  and  over- 
head the  dark  sky,  dimly  gemmed  with  stars.  Then 
they  returned  into  the  stream  of  light,  and  he  could 
see  how  the  feathery  trimming  of  her  wrap  curled 
close  about  her  throat,  and  how  her  eyes  sparkled 
beneath  her  hat-brim,  and  how  delicate  was  the  little 
hand  resting  on  his  arm.  Then  again  they  entered 
the  blackness  beyond  the  curve. 

"  It's  like  a  shipwreck,  isn't  it  ?"  asked  Jerome. 

*^Very,"  assented  Diana,  abstractedly.  She  was 
thinking  that  when  Mrs.  Bromley's  grand-daughters 
should  come  to  visit  her, — about  forty  years  hence, 
— and  should  furtively  sneer  at  her  for  being  an  old 
maid,  she  would  tell  them  what  a  tall,  handsome, 
manly  lover  she  had  once  spurned. 


[V'l  ''■\ 


I    ! 


^    i 


}\ 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

"  But  if  he  sinned, 
The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the  blood. 
And  not  the  one  dark  hour  that  brings  remorse, 
Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we  be." 

Tennyson, 


Bella  spent  Thursday,  the  day  succeeding  Diana's 
departure,  quite  alone,  and  the  unbroken  silence  of 
the  long  hours  was  a  balm  for  her  troubled  spirit. 


I 
ii 

,8: 


2l6 


ADRIFT. 


Her  self-censure  became  less  unsparing;  the  affair 
was  all  over  now,  and  she  was  willing  to  believe  that 
she  had  at  first  exaggerated  the  enormity  of  her 
errors.  She  gave  herself  up  to  uninterrupted  revery, 
recalling,  as  on  waking  one  recalls  a  dream  already 
half  forgotten,  a  hundred  incidents  she  had  thought 
trifling  at  the  time  of  their  occurrence,  but  which 
now  she  strove  to  rescue  from  the  waters  of  Lethe 
as  if  they  had  been  precious  treasures. 

"'  I  should  wear  a  suit  of  taffeta,  for  my  mind  is  a 
very  opal,' "  she  quoted,  and  indeed  it  was  but  a  few 
hours  since  she  had  been  seeking  to  ignore  the  past 
with  as  much  assiduity  as  she  now  endeavored  to  rec- 
ollect it.  She  wanted  to  remember  the  features,  the 
voice,  the  mental  traits  of  this  man  who  had  loved  her. 
She  did  not  for  an  instant  blind  herself  to  the  fact 
that  he  was  rather  a  poor  sort  of  hero ;  that  his 
philosophy  was  essentially  false  and  low;  that  he 
was  equally  without  ideals  and  ambitions,  and  that  for 
sterling  worth  of  character  he  would  ill  compare 
with  his  friend  Harvey  or  even  with  her  disprized 
husband.  But  he  loved  her!  that  was  the  main  fact, 
— that  some  one — any  one,  it  mattered  not  who — 
sliould  bestow  on  her  the  same  unquestioning  love 
and  admiration  Jack  had  felt  away  back  in  her  teens  ! 
Some  one  found  her  still  beautiful,  still  adorable! 
The  ineffable  sweetness  of  this  thought  pierced  her 
heart  with  a  rapture  that  was  almost  pain.  She  had 
believed  the  wondrous  fairy-land  of  passion  and  ro- 
mance forever  closed  to  her,  and  lo  !  the  barriers  had 
somehow  melted  away  and  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  joys  within,  as   gray  tempestuous  clouds    roll 


ADRIFT. 


217 


apart,  revealing  a  clear  space  of  blessed  heavenly- 
blue. 

She  went  out  in  the  afternoon,  rambling  aimlessly 
through  the  grounds  of  the  two  houses  and  beneath 
the  pines  that  fringed  the  gardens.  Even  in  this 
short  stroll  she  felt  a  need  of  Stephen :  he  would 
have  been  able  to  piece  out  the  fragment  of  a  quota- 
tion that  haunted  her. — 


il 


1- 


s 


"  Wine-red  woods  where  song  no  more  delights,"- 


1 1 


and  he  would  have  classified  in  a  moment  the  odd 
varieties  of  fallen  leaves  she  gathered.  She  won- 
dered if  they  would  ever  meet  again,  and  if  so,  in 
what  circumstances.  She  hoped  they  would  not 
meet;  but  she,  meant  to  read  every  word  he  ever 
wrote,  and  perhaps  some  tirre  she  would  know  from 
some  slight  chance  allusion  that  he  was  still  thinking 
of  her  and  of  that  long  sunny  summer  at  Niagara. 
She  wandered  about,  employed  in  these  harmless 
and  contented  meditations,  till  the  sun  had  sunk 
into  his  regal  couch  of  rose  and  amber  and  palest 
green,  and  till  the  shadows  on  the  Canadian  shore 
had  deepened  and  gloomed  from  faint  aniethyst 
through  royal  purple  to  black. 

Then  she  went  in-doors  and  found  tea  awaiting 
her.  When  it  was  over,  and  her  spirits  were  begin- 
ning to  quail  at  the  prospect  of  a  dull  evening, 
Maggie  ushered  in  John,  formerly  Philippe.  Harvey 
had  retained  him,  and  Ellen  also,  in  his  employ,  and 
already  they  regarded  him  with  affection  and  loyalty. 

The   man   had   brought   the   large  box   containing 
K  19 


2l8 


ADRIFT. 


i\ 


x 


w 


Marcy  Forrester's  legacy  to  Bella, — the  Watteau 
costume.  She  led  the  way  up-stairs,  directing  him 
to  follow.  He  deposited  the  box  on  the  floor  of  her 
chamber,  and  turned  to  go;  but  in  Diana's  sitting- 
room  he  lingered. 

"This  wasn't  all  the  ould  feller  left  yez;  have  yez 
forgot  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Why — yes,"  said  Bella,  musing.  "  I  can't  think 
of  anything  else." 

"  It's  unwillin'  I  am  to  give  it  yez,"  the  man  went 
on,  "  bekase  it's  sure  to  bring  bad  luck ;  but  yez 
must  be  yer  own  judge  of  that."  He  drew  a  tiny 
parcel  from  his  pocket,  unfolded  two  or  three  papers, 
and  produced  a  ring.  "  I  heard  him  give  it  yez  wid 
almosht  his  last  breath,  an'  whin  we  got  him  in  the 
house  I  took  it  off  his  finger  unbeknownst." 

Bella  took  the  ring  and  exclaimed  with  feminine 
delight  over  the  beauty  of  the  lambent  yellow  jewel 
and  its  strange  barbaric  setting.  She  hesitated  the 
merest  instant;  then  vanity  triumphed  over  super- 
stition and  she  slipped  it  on  her  finger. 

*'  Do  ye  moind  how  he  said  it  would  bring  stringth 
an'  a  quick  death  to  whoever  wore  it  ?"  John  asked, 
anxiously. 

"I  remember,"  replied  Bella,  "but  just  now  I  am 
willing  to  risk  death  on  the  chance  of  being  strong." 

Seeing  her  so  brave,  the  man  laughed  at  his  own 
fears.  *'  There's  wan  thing  more,"  he  said.  "  Ellen 
sent  ye  a  couple  of  roses  from  the  green-house.  I 
left  thim  on  the  hall  table.  I'll  tell  Maggie  to  put 
thim  in  wather,  will  I  ?" 

"  Yes,  please,  and  thank  Ellen  for  me,"  said  Bella. 


ADRIFT. 


219 


"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  too,  John,"  she 
added,  and  dismissed  him  with  a  kind  good-night. 
Then  she  sat  down  to  read,  but  the  book  had  httle 
interest  for  her,  and  when  Maggie  came  up-stairs 
she  was  glad  of  a  few  moments'  chat  with  her. 
Presently  Maggie  went  to  bed,  and  she  was  alone. 
It  was  only  eight  o'clock,  and  there  were  three  long 
hours  to  dispose  of  before  bedtime. 

Suddenly  she  remembered  her  pretty  dress,  and 
amused  herself  by  opening  the  box  and  once  more 
spreading  its  glories  out  to  view.  She  had  firmly 
resolved  never  to  wear  it  again,  but  she  now  recon- 
sidered this  determination ;  private  theatricals  were 
a  favorite  diversion  in  Buffalo,  and  Bella  felt  her  fit- 
ness for  certain  roles  greatly  enhanced  by  the  pos- 
session of  this  attire.  It  occurred  to  her  that  putting 
it  on  would  be  a  charming  recreation  for  this  stupid 
evening,  and  accordingly  she  proceeded  to  robe  her- 
self in  the  shimmering  satin  and  creamy  lace.  She 
left  her  hair  braided  in  its  usual  fashion  and  did  not 
powder  it,  '^ut  with  this  exception  the  toilet  was 
complete.  When  it  was  finished,  from  the  dainty 
slippers  to  the  ropes  of  pearls  encircling  the  round 
white  neck  and  arms,  she  regarded  herself  in  the 
mirror  with  a  fond  criticism. 

"  I  don't  care !"  she  murmured.  "  He  is  not  to 
blame  for  thinking  me  nice !"  Then,  blushing  at 
her  self-praise,  she  turned  away  and  swept  slowly 
down-stairs,  looking  backward  at  every  step  to  ob- 
serve the  graceful  undulations  of  her  train. 

The  hall  was  brilliantly  lighted,  the  parlor  but 
dimly,  except  for  the  fire,  which  glowed  amidst  the 


t 


220 


ADRIFT, 


crimson  draperies  of  the  little  room  like  the  golden 
heart  of  a  great  red  rose.  Had  the  place  been  in 
total  darkness  Bella  could  have  found  the  flowers 
Ellen  had  sent  by  their  rich  fragrance ;  she  took  the 
two  half-blown  buds  from  the  vase,  and  secured 
them  in  the  bosom  of  her  corsage.  This  last  touch 
of  adornment  added,*  she  felt  herself  equipped  for 
conquest,  and  smiled  to  recall  how  she  had  wished 
for  some  beholder  of  her  splendor  when  she  first 
wore  the  costume  months  before. 

She  had  just  assured  herself  that  it  was  too  late — 
nearly  nine  o'clock — to  expect  any  visitors,  when  a 
rapid  step  came  up  the  walk  and  the  door-bell  rang. 
Her  heart  gave  one  violent  leap  and  then  began  to 
flutter  like  a  prisoned  bird ;  the  color  in  her  cheeks 
came  and  went  in  swift  alternation.  It  might  have 
been  Dr.  Tevan  or  an"  one  of  a  hundred  ordinary 
acquaintances;  but  intuition  told  her  it  was  not. 

She  made  a  great  effort  to  command  herself,  and, 
having  regained  at  least  outward  composure,  went 
to  the  door  and  opened  it.  Stephen  stood  on  the 
veranda,  looking,  in  spite  of  a  confident  smile, 
anxious  and  haggard. 

To  a  lover  each  fresh  sight  of  his  mistress  has  the 
significance  of  a  revelation.  It  is  as  if  he  had  never 
before  noted  half  her  perfection.  Bella  had  never 
appeared  so  radiantly  charming  in  Stephen's  eyes. 
He  had  planned  this  meeting,  had  thought  of 
nothing  else  for  days ;  yet  now  to  be  in  her  actual 
presence  seemed  so  infinitely  strange,  so  much  in 
the  nature  of  a  miracle,  that  he  could  only  stand 
gazing  at  her,  overawed  and  silent,  while  his  bold 


ADRIFT. 


221 


smile    changed    to    an    expression    of   deprecating 
liumility. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Brooks !  Can  it  indeed  be  you  ?  It 
really  doesn't  seem  possible !"  exclaimed  Bella, 
quite  in  her  usual  tones. 

"  Yes,  it's  I, — '  not  Lancelot,  nor  another,' "  he 
returned.     "Aren't  you  going  to  ask  me  in?" 

"  Certainly, — come  in !  Never  was  guest  more 
welcome ;  the  house  has  the  loneliness  of  a  desert 
island  this  evening."  He  entered,  and  she  closed 
the  door.  "  Isn't  it  very  cold  out  to-night  ?"  she 
inquired,  somewhat  at  random. 

*'  Rather  so ;  I  walked  very  fast  from  the  station, 
and  did  not  mind  the  weather  much,"  replied 
Stephen,  throwing  off  his  overcoat  with  the  ease 
of  one  entirely  at  home.  **  But  Ilm  quite  chilled 
enough  to  appreciate  this  sparkling  fire,"  he  added, 
following  Bella  into  the  parlor.  He  glanced  around 
the  familiar  room,  devoutly  thankful  to  find  it  un- 
occupied, and  sunk  into  a  chair  with  a  breath  of 
content. 

"  From  the  station  ?"  repeated  Bella,  like  a  tardy 
echo  "  Have  you  not  been  to  your  friend's  house 
yet  ?" 

"  Not  yet ;  I  half  expected  to  find  him  here.  By 
the  way,  where  is  Miss  Forrester?" 

"  She  is  gone  to  visit  her  native  heath,"  said  Bella, 
"  and  Mr.  Harvey  has  gone  after  her.  I  dare  say  he 
will  insist  upon  their  coming  home  in  the  same  train, 
to  Diana's  horror  and  dismay." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Stephen,  indifferently,  and  a 

pause  ensued. 

ig* 


222 


ADRIFT. 


Bella  had  not  seated  herself,  and,  in  a  nervous  dread 
of  silence,  she  now  took  the  leaves  she  had  gathered 
in  the  afternoon  and  gave  them  to  him,  saying, — 

"  I  thought  of  you  to-day ;  I  could  not  tell  what 
these  leaves  were,  and  I  was  sure  you  would  knov/ 
if  you  were  here." 

"  Let  nie  see,"  he  said,  l6oking  thcni  over  ab- 
sently. He  returned  them  one  by  one  into  Bella's 
hand,  mentioning  each  species  as  he  did  so.  Wiien 
they  were  all  named,  he  burst  out  in  half-indignant 
reproach,  " '  Thought  of  me  to-day,'  you  said  !  Ah, 
Bella,  Bella,  is  that  all  ?  Your  face  has  floated  be- 
fore my  eyes  ever  since  I  left  you,  till  I  thought  I 
was  going  mad  !  I  couldn't  get  rid  of  it ;  I  tried  to, 
but  I  couldn't!" 

"Oh,  hush!  Hush,  for  mercy's  sake!"  cried 
Bella.  She  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot;  the 
leaves  dropped  out  of  her  shaking  fingers  upon  the 
floor. 

'*  The  little  sleep  I've  had  has  been  filled  with 
dreams  of  you, — happy  dreams  of  our  being  to- 
gether; frightful  dreams  of  your  being  in  danger; 
sad  dreams  that  almost  made  me  weep  for  pity  of 
you.  *  My  body  was  in  Segovia,  but  my  soul  was  in 
Madrid  !'  I  couldn't  stand  it,  Bella ;  I  had  to  come 
back !" 

"  Mr.  Brooks,"  said  Bella,  in  a  voice  quivering 
with  pain,  "  this  is  not  my  house,  and  I  cannot  order 
you  to  leave  it;  but  at  least  I  can  retire  from  the 
room." 

"You  shall  not!  Oh,  surely  you  will  not?"  cried 
Stephen.     He  sprang  from    his    chair,  crossed   the 


ADRIFT. 


223 


room  to  where  she  stood,  and  caught  both  her  hands 
in  his  own,  pouring  forth  a  wild  torrent  of  words. 
*'  I  went  down  to  New  York  and  tried  to  work, — 
work !  I  think  I've  done  my  last  in  this  world ;  one 
can't  work  wl:ien  one's  brain  is  just  a  whirling  fire! 
I  walked  among  the  crowds  of  people  in  the  streets, 
and  they  all  seemed  like  shadows  and  ghosts,  and  I 
kept  saying,  '  There's  only  one  real  living  creature  on 
earth  for  me.'  And  at  last  I  said,  *  Shall  I  go  to  see 
her,  or  shall  I  die  ?'  So  I  took  the  train,  but  it  only 
seemed  to  crawl,  even  though  't  was  flying  like  the 
wind ;  and  yet  all  the  time  I  had  a  fear  that  we  were 
going  too  fast',  and  that  there  would  be  some  acci- 
dent to  delay  my  getting  here !" 

Bella  looked  up  at  him,  at  once  fascinated  and 
terrified ;  she  longed  to  get  away,  and  the  physical 
restraint  of  his  clasping  hands  was  less  powerful  to 
detain  her  than  the  unescapable  entreaty  of  his  gaze. 
His  vehement  speech  had  the  eloquence  of  utter  truth ; 
he  seemed  to  be  consumed  by  a  desire  to  make  her 
realize  the  sincerity  and  earnestness  of  his  feeling. 

"  And  with  every  hour,  Bella,  my  anxiety  grew 
more  insupportable.  Even  in  this  last  mile  or  so  I 
thought,  as  I  came  walking  and  running  along,  '  She 
has  gone  away ;  she  is  ill ;  she  is  dead  !'  And  wl)en 
I  rang  the  bell  I  quaked  lest  Miss  Forrester  or  the 
servant  should  answer  it,  and  I  should  have  to  wait 
another  minute  before  I  saw  you  !" 

Bella,  unable  to  stem  this  outburst  or  to  free  her 
hands,  drooped  her  head  and  moaned. 

"And  now!"  cried  Stephen,  a  sudden  ring  of  ex- 
ultation  in  his  voice.     "  Now,  all   in  a  moment  to 


f 


t! 


— t, 


i 

I 

i 


224 


ADRIFT, 


change  that  hideous  noisy  train  and  lonely  road  for 
this  still,  sweet  room ;  to  find  you  quite  alone,  and 
so  patient  with  me,  and  wearing  the  dress  you  wore 
that  first  night !  It's  too  much  happiness ;  it's  like 
entering  into  heaven  after  a  wretched  sinful  life  on 
earth!" 

He  caught  her  hands  to  his  lips,  pressed  a  single 
burning  kiss  on  each,  and  released  them. 

"  What  a  brute  I  am  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  You  are 
trembling ;  it  is  misery  for  you  to  listen  to  me.  You 
are  free,  Bella ;  go  if  you  like." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  go  !"  she  murmured.  "  I  cannot  if  I 
would !"  Her  limbs  recused  to  support  her,  and  she 
sunk  into  the  nearest  chair,  pale  and  agitated.  Ste- 
phen hurried  into  the  dining-room,  where  the  silver 
pitcher  stood  in  its  wonted  place,  and  brought  her  a 
glass  of  water.  She  drank  a  little,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments was  calm  again. 

She  wondered  that  anything  should  surprise  her 
after  the  first  shock  of  learning  Stephen's  love  that 
day  in  the  storm;  but  a  woman  comprehends  just 
as  much  of  a  man's  feeling  as  is  expressed  to  her, 
and  no  more ;  she  cannot  construct  in  imagination 
the  vast  magnificent  flower  of  love  from  a  few  fallen 
petals,  nor  picture  the  immense  reserves  of  passion 
behind  a  quiet  exterior;  and  it  requires  such  an 
avalanche  of  words  as  Stephen's  to  make  the  clever- 
est of  her  sex  understand  the  extent  and  intensity 
of  the  sentiments  she  has  inspired.  Bella  regarded 
her  lover  with  a  soft  pity  as  she  said, — 

"  I  didn't  know  you  cared  so  much  for  me.  I'm 
sorry, — oh,  so  sorry  !" 


ADRIFT. 


225 


**  I'm  not !"  said  Stephen,  smiling.  He  took  a 
chair  at  some  distance  from  her,  and  delivered  his 
remarks  with  a  guarded  gentleness,  so  that  the 
manner  of  them  was  no  longer  alarming,  whatever 
the  matter  might  be.  "  I  think  I  shall  be  sorry  some 
time;  but  not  yet.  How  can  I  be,  when  I  can  still 
look  at  you  and  speak  to  you  ?  Though  I  should 
die  for  it,  I  should  think  this  hour  well  worth  the 
price !     Do  not  be  angry  with  me." 

The  course  of  Bella's  prematrimonial  attachment 
had  run  with  smoothness,  and  John  Forrester  had 
never  been  impelled  to  declare  death  a  trifling  pen- 
alty to  pay  for  a  sight  of  his  betrothed.  Stephen's 
observation,  therefore,  had  the  irresistible  charm  of 
novelty. 

"  I  am  not  angry,"  Bella  returned.  "  Not  with 
you,  at  any  rate ;  only  with  myself.  I  am  the  only 
rne  to  blame." 

**  You  to  blarne  !"  said  Stephen,  in  amaze.  "  Why, 
from  first  to  last  you  have  been  utterly  unconscious 
of  my  infatuation.  You  did  not  try  to  lead  me  on ; 
you  were  only  your  own  natural  self  always." 

Bella  shook  her  head.  **  Ignorance  is  wicked," 
she  said.  "  There  was  always  some  bond  between 
us, — I  tried  to  think  it  was  because  we  both  liked 
books.  That  day  on  the  Third  Sister  Island,  when 
you  offered  me  the  little  willow  switch  the  second 
time,  I  ought  not  to  have  yielded  to  your  influence 
and  taken  it.  It  pleased  you  to  think  you  could 
make  me  obey  you.  That  must  have  been  the  be- 
ginning." 

"The  beginning  was  long  before  that,  and  mine 
P 


■  pi 


I 


226 


ADRIFT. 


was  the  wrong,  if  you  choose  to  name  it  so.  That 
first  night  we  called  at  Marcy  Forrester's  house,  the 
woman  did  not  usher  me  into  the  parlor;  she  left 
me  standing  in  the  hall,  and  I  entered  the  parlor  of 
my  own  accord.  Just  as  I  stood  on  the  threshold  I 
had  a  strange  warning, — I  knew  that  behind  that 
door  I  should  find  sorrow  and  remorse  and  woe  un- 
utterable.    But  it's  worth  it  all, — knowing  you  !" 

Bella  listened  with  a  curious  blending  of  pride  and 
shame,  just  as  in  the  future  she  would  forever  lament 
and  rejoice  simultaneously  over  the  whole  episode, 
"  I  remember  that  first  evening,"  rh--^  mused.  "  What 
did  you  mean  when  you  said  you  hoped  I  was  only 
a  spirit?     You  promised  to  tell  me  some  day." 

Stephen  hesitated,  finding  that  primal  impression 
almost  too  audacious  for  repetition  even  now. 
"  Well !"  he  said,  desperately,  "  I  meant  that  I  pre- 
ferred you  to  be  dead  rather  than  living  and  not 
mine." 

:  "  Oh !  so  soon  ?"  exclaimed  Bella.  "  Did  you 
really  think  me  nice" — Stephen  smiled  at  the  cir- 
cumlocution— "  as  soon  as  that  ?" 

"  I  did,"  he  answered,  gravel}/.  "  Harvey  wanted 
to  go  back  to  New  York  next  day,  but  I  prevented 
him ;  I  wanted  to  see  you  again." 

"  That  was  not  wrong ;  you  did  not  know  I  was 
married  then,"  commented  Bella.  "  But  when  you 
did  know ?" 

"  Why  did  I  not  flee  temptation  ?  Do  you  sup- 
pose I  found  you  any  the  less  charming  because  you 
were  another  man's  wife  ?  No !  I  knew  that  our 
acquaintance  could  never  ripen  into  a  happy  love ; 


ADRIFT. 


227 


but  I  also  knew  that  even  your  friendship  would 
make  this  summer  the  joyfullest  one  I  ever  lived 
through.  Oh,  Bella,  Bella !  the  cruel  pain  of  know- 
ing it's  all  over !  that  so  long  as  we  live,  through  all 
the  dull,  endless,  stagnant  years,  this  summer  can 
never  come  again!"  He  flung  his  arm  along  the 
back  of  his  chair,  and  half  turning,  buried  his  face 
upon  it  with  a  hopeless  sigh. 

"  Stephen,  Stephen !  don't  feel  so  badly !"  im- 
plored Bella.  She  was  touched  by  the  wretchedness 
of  his  attitude,  and  longed  to  say  something  to  com- 
fort him  ;  yet  what  words  could  she  utter  that  would 
not  be  adding  fuel  to  the  flame  ? 

"  There's  one  thing  I  must  know !"  cried  the 
young  man,  anxiously,  forgetting  his  self-imposed 
calm.  He  took  a  chair  close  at  Bella's  side,  speak- 
ing in  uncontrollable  excitement.  "  Oh,  my  darling, 
my  dearest,  tell  me !  Have  I  made  you  unhappy  ? 
Shall  you  always  feel  this  love  of  mine  as  an  evil 
memory  to  be  shut  away?  Will  my  image  come 
back  to  you  by  and  by  a  thing  of  horror  ?  a  black 
blot  on  the  stainless  purity  of  your  mind  ?  Bella, 
are  you  sorry  you  have  known  me  ?" 

*  Oh,  I  must  be !  I  was  sorry  to-day,  I  shall  be  so 

to-morrow ;  but  to-night "     She  paused,  seeking 

for  words  to  express  that  constant  double  sense  of 
joy  and  pain.  "  I  didn't  know  I  should  ever  again 
be  precious  to  any  one ;  that  any  one  would  prize  as 
a  lover  does  my  smile,  my  glance,  my  foolish  little 
ways.  It's  like  the  blessedness  of  Indian  summer, 
coming  back  for  a  few  golden  days  when  we  had 
despaired  of  any  more  sunshine.     Yes,  I   shall   be 


228 


ADRIFT. 


li  I 


sorry  to-morrow,"  she  murmured,  dreamily,  letting 
her  gravely  trusting  eyes  rest  on  Stephen's,  "  but  to- 
night, just  for  to-night,  Stephen,  it's  very,  very  sweet 
to  know  that  you  love  me !" 

In  another  instant  he  had  kissed  her  twice  on  the 
lips.  She  did  not  rebel ;  but  she  turned  deathly 
white,  and  her  head  sunk  back  against  his  shoulder 
in  a  stricken  kind  of  way ;  for  a  time  there  seemv^jd 
to  be  a  suspension  of  all  faculties  in  her,  and  Stephen 
kissed  her  brow,  cheek,  chin,  unrebuked.  At  last  in 
one  swift  tumultuous  rush  the  color  came  back  to 
her  face ;  she  screened  it  in  her  hands,  and  then  it 
was  upon  the  hands  and  soft  white  arms  the  young 
man's  kisses  rained ;  he  had  not  for  one  moment 
ceased  to  breathe  the  tenderest  endearments. 

"  You  have  ki^-  \  I  me !"  cried  Bella,  at  last,  in  a 
voice  of  poignant  anguish.  "  Oh,  I  didn't  think  you 
v'ould  ever  do  that !  Go, — go  this  minute,  and  never 
let  me  see  you  again !" 

**  Bella,  darling,  hear  me,  listen  to  me !"  pleaded 
Stephen. 

"  No,  no,  not  an  instant !     If  you  will  not  leave 

me "     She  rose  and  went  across  the  room  on 

her  way  up-stairs;  but  she  trembled  so  violently 
that  she  was  forced  to  sink  into  a  chair  by  the  hall 
door-way.  **  Oh,  ivont  you  be  generous,  and  go 
away  ?"  she  implored,  wildly. 

Stephen  flung  himself  on  his  knees  beside  her. 
"  I  cannot  go  till  you  forgive  me.  I  was  wrong, 
cruel,  beside  myself;  but  oh,  forgive  me !"  he  en- 
treated. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do  forgive  you.     It's  all  my  fault, —  I 


ADRIFT. 


229 


|i 


might  have  expected  it,"  mourned  Bella.  She  burst 
into  a  storm  of  tears,  and  every  soothing  word  the 
young  man  uttered  only  brought  on  a  fresh  paroxysm 
of  grief.  "Are  you  not  going?  Go, — go,  for 
Heaven's  sake  !"  she  cried. 

"  I  may  see  you  again  to-morrow?" 

"  How  can  you  ask  it  ?  No ;  we  must  never  meet 
again  after  this." 

"  Dearest,  I  cannot  let  this  moment  of  pain  be 
our  parting,  our  eternal  parting.  Let  me  see  you 
to-morrow,  if  only  for  five  minutes." 

"  I  must  not,— I  will  not !" 

"  Bella,  do  you  wish  me  to  think  you  do  not  for- 
give me  ?  Do  you  wish  me  to  carry  away  in  a  last 
vision  of  you  these  tears  and  sobs  and  bitter  self- 
reproaches  ?  Come  into  the  garden  to-morrow, — 
come  to  the  little  summer-house  and  say  good-by. 
I  will  wait  there  for  you  all  day." 

"  No,  no ! — I  will  be  there  at  four." 

"  Thank  you !"  cried  Stephen,  triumphant.  Still 
kneeling,  he  gently  drew  down  one  of  the  hands 
that  pressed  the  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  rever- 
ently kissed  it.  "  God  bless  you,  my  angel !  Good- 
night!" 


20 


i 


I 


i 


CHAPTER    XX. 

"  But  the  first  fault  was  a  green  seed  of  shame, 
And  now  the  flower,  and  deadly  fruit  will  come 
With  apple-time  in  autumn." 

Swinburne. 

Bella  rose  early,  after  a  wretched  night,  and, 
when  she  had  languidly  dressed  herself,  descended 
to  the  parlor.  Is  there  on  earth  a  more  grim  experi- 
ence than  to  go  in  the  cold  gray  glare  of  morning 
into  a  room  which  the  evening  before  was  the  scene 
of  intolerable  shame  and  disgrace  ?  For  disgrace 
Bella  considered  it ;  in  her  somewhat  indeterminate 
code  of  ethics  one  law  had  always  remained  immu- 
table,— namely,  that  the  exact  point  in  a  flirtation 
where  folly  became  sin  was  distinctly  indicated  by  a 
kiss.  Stephen  had  overstepped  this  boundary-line 
as  if  it  did  not  exist ;  Bella,  on  the  contrary,  felt  a 
remorse  not  only  genuine,  but  utterly  without  alle- 
viation. In  such  circumstances  it  always  seems  that 
it  would  have  been  so  easy  to  avoid  topics  of  danger, 
to  steer  clear  of  emotional  reefs  and  shoals.  Easy 
or  not,  Bella  had  not  done  so,  and  she  confessed  the 
fact  with  a  humiliation  and  despondency  that  made 
her  heart  ache.  In  this  room  the  supreme  crisis  of 
her  life  had  ; ust  passed.  There  on  the  floor  lay  the 
dry  yellov  leaves  they  had  discussed  in  careless 
tones  before  the  face  of  the  world  changed  for  them ; 
there  lay  the  tw  .  pink  rose-buds  she  had  worn  in 
230 


ADRIFT. 


231 


her  bosom ;  they  had  fallen  from  her  dress,  she  re- 
membered fancying,  as  though  glad  to  escape  its  de- 
filing contact ;  they  were  sweet  yet,  but  their  frail 
beauty  was  fast  withering  away,  as  if  they  too  were 
passion-scorched.  There  stood  the  easy-chair  in 
which  she  had  sat,  her  head  against  his  shoulder, 
terrified  yet  unresisting,  while  he  had  kissed  her  as 
if  he  were  starving,  dying  for  the  touch  of  her  cheek  ; 
there  by  the  door-way  he  had  dropped  on  his  knees 
and  begged  her  forgiveness ;  there  on  the  table  lay 
the  handkerchief  that  had  been  drenched  with  her 
scalding  tears.  She  felt  as  if  she  could  never  weep 
again,  and  looked  round  upon  these  things,  so  inno- 
cent in  themselves,  so  ghastly  in  that  they  had  been 
mute  witnesses  of  her  misdeeds,  with  eyes  heavy 
with  the  weight  of  unshed  tears.  She  examined 
her  face  in  the  little  plush-framed  mirror  hanging 
diamond-wise  upon  the  wall,  and  was  vexed  to  find 
its  outward  fairness  unsullied. 

"  What  a  dull,  hard,  callous  thing  flesh  is !"  she 
cried,  impatiently.  "  I  ought  to  have  turned  black 
by  this  time !" 

She  gathered  up  the  roses  and  the  shrivelled  leaves 
and  carried  them  off  up-stairs  to  the  sitting-room. 
Then  she  collected  the  hundred  trifles  she  had  accu- 
mulated during  the  summer,  each  one  the  souvenir 
of  some  experience  better  forgotten, — the  willow 
switch;  a  photograph  of  the  Falls,  endorsed  with 
the  signatures  of  Jerome,  Diana,  Stephen,  and  her- 
self; a  flower,  a  pebble,  or  a  bit  of  moss  from  every 
spot  the  four  had  visited  together;  all  Stephen's 
verses,  many  of  which  the  author  had  read  aloud  to 


:,.^. 


t  -  ■■% 


232 


ADRIFT. 


her  as  his  first  and  most  valued  audience.  Reading 
them  over  now,  she  was  curiously  dismayed  to  re- 
alize that  she  herself  was  the  divinity  whose  favor 
was  so  ardently  invoked ;  it  was  as  if  he  had  taken 
all  mankind  into  his  confidence  in  these  printed 
things,  and  as  if  the  whole  world  knew  her  for  a 
silly,  selfish,  heedless  woman,  given  over  to  vanity, 
flirtation,  and  caprice.  Yet  all  these  rhapsodies  had 
a  certain  ring  of  truth  and  longing  in  them,  and  it 
was  not  in  a  sacrificial  calm,  but  with  many  a  pang 
of  regret,  many  a  stifled  sob  and  sigh,  that  she  took 
them  all  from  her  chamber  into  the  sitting-room, 
where  an  open  fire  was  blazing,  and  laid  them  one 
by  one  in  the  centre  of  the  flames.  This  holocaust, 
external  and  subsidiary  though  it  was  to  the  real  re- 
nunciation of  Stephen,  gave  her  some  comfort,  and 
she  proceeded  with  her  packing  for  the  morrow  in 
less  absolute  misery. 

A  drizzling  rain  began  early  in  the  morning,  and 
as  the  day  wore  on  it  neither  increased  nor  abated, 
onlj^  fell  steadily  down,  making  the  gravel  walks  a 
complicated  hydraulic  system  of  tiny  reservoirs  and 
canals,  and  turning  every  drooping  branch  of  a  tree 
into  a  vertical  water-course.  Bella  felt  certain  that 
Stephen  would  attempt  to  forestall  her  coming  out  in 
such  weather  by  calling  at  the  house ;  but  she  could 
not  endure  the  thought  of  again  receiving  him  in 
that  room  which  the  previous  evening  had  filled  with 
such  importunate  associations,  and  to  prevent  this 
she  went  out  about  half  an  hour  before  the  time 
appointed  for  the  tryst,  meeting  Stephen  near  the 
summer-house. 


ADRIFT. 


233 


He  saw  at  the  first  glance,  and  indeed  he  had 
never  doubted,  that  although  he  had  parted  from 
her  with  a  kiss  it  would  be  quite  out  of  the  question 
to  greet  her  so  effusively,  and  he  merely  said, — 

"  I  would  have  forfeited  this  interview  rather  than 
have  you  exposed  to  this  storm.  You  will  certainly 
catch  cold." 

"  No,  I  shall  not, — naught  is  never  in  danger," 
returned  Bella,  a  little  bitterly. 

She  entered  the  summer-house,  Stephen  followed, 
and  they  sat  down.  He  had  expected  to  find  her  ner- 
vous and  distressed ;  but  she  had  apparently  conquered 
all  agitation,  and  her  eyes  met  his  without  confusion. 

"  You  were  quite  right, — it  would  have  been  most 
unwise  not  to  have  seen  each  other  to-day,"  she  said, 
quietly,  and  in  a  manner  that  seemed  to  relegate  him 
to  an  immense  distance.  "  Not  for  worlds  would  I 
have  had  you  go  away  without  hearing  some  things 
I  must  say." 

Stephen  listened  with  due  gravity,  and  bent  his 
head  in  acquiescence.  It  mattered  very  little  to  him 
whether  she  spoke  or  was  silent,  so  long  as  she  sat 
there  looking  so  bright,  sweet,  piquant,  in  spite  of 
her  serious  demeanor. 

"  First  of  all,"  she  went  on,  "  I  won't  have  you  go 
away  thinking  that  I  care  for  you.  I  do  7iot^ — not 
an  atom !" 

"Are  you  not  deceiving  yourself?"  asked  Stephen, 
the  words  redeemed  from  over-confidence  by  the 
supplicating  humility  of  the  tone.  "  Surely,  Bella, 
you  do  care  for  me  a  little  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  way  you  mean, — no,  Stephen.     We 


:^ 


m 


20' 


234 


ADRIFT. 


have  been  very  good  friends,  and  I  shall  miss  you 
out  of  my  life  almost  as  I  would  the  sunshine;  but 
that's  all.  It's  a  poor  salvage  of  my  dignity  to  cling 
to, — saying  that  I  don't  love  you ;  I  think  it  argues 
me  a  worse  woman, — my  letting  you  go  on  as  you 
did  last  night  without  loving  you  than  if  I  had  the 
excuse  of  strong  feeling.  But  the  fact  remains :  I 
have  never  loved  any  one  but  Jack,  and  though  of 
course  that's  all  over  now,  yet  the  memory  of  it  will 
always  hold  me  away  from  any  other  man.  You 
just  stole  a  place  in  my  unoccupied  heart  for  a  few 
weeks ;  you  were  never  its  owner." 

Stephen  heard  these  truths  patiently ;  he  had  all 
the  time  had  the  clearest  perception  of  them.  "  I 
knew  it  always,"  he  said.    "  But  I  hoped  in  time " 

"  Oh,  certainly !  Given  time,  any  man  on  earth 
can  win  any  woman's  love,"  said  Bella.  "  I  am 
familiar  with  that  axiom ;  I  don't  dispute  it.  Only 
time  is  the  one  thing  of  all  others  you  cannot  have. 
After  to-day  I  shall  never  speak  to  you  again  1" 

Stephen  laughed  in  his  sleeve  at  her  simplicity. 
Did  she  really  think  he  was  going  back  to  New 
York,  and  that  she  would  have  courage  to  return 
home?  He  expected  to  see  her  again  in  twenty- 
four  hours  at  latest,  and  in  a  mood  as  different  from 
this  austere  one  as  noon  from  midnight.  It  was  this 
serene  trust  which  enabled  him  to  preserve  his  air 
of  grave  calm. 

"  There's  another  thing,"  Bella  went  on.  "  Last 
night  you  said  something — I  forget  what — about  my 
being  free.  Well,  if  I  were  free,  I  would  not  marry 
you, — I  would  rather  spring  off  here," — she  turned, 


ADRIFT. 


235 


bent  over  the  railing,  and  let  her  gaze  sink  plummet- 
like down  past  trees  and  rocks  to  the  gray  river 
eddying  and  twisting  by  in  slow,  snake- like  coils, — 
"  into  that  water,  and  choke  and  strangle  and  drown, 
than  be  your  wife  1" 

"That's  an  unkind  thing  to  say,  Bella!"  cried  the 
young  man,  a  dark  flash  on  his  cheek  revealing  that 
he  was  deeply  stung.  "  It's  more  than  unkind, — it's 
cruel,  it's  insulting." 

"  I  don't  care, — it's  true !"  said  Bella,  unflinching. 
"  If  my  husband  had  married  a  girl  who  hated  him 
he  would  have  made  her  happy,  because  he  is  faitli- 
ful,  honorable,  considerate.  You  arc  none  of  those 
things, — faithful  least  of  all.  Don't  you  suppose  I 
recognize  in  you  a  lover  of  long  experience  and 
practice  ?  There  have  been  a  score  of  women  before 
me;  my  image  will  be  obliterated,  and  there  will  be 
a  score  after  me." 

"  I  assure  you,  Bella,  on  my  word  as  a  gentle- 
man  "  began  Stephen  in  angry  protest;  but  she 

interrupted  him. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  !"  she  cried,  impatiently.  **  You 
talked  last  night ;  it's  my  turn  now.  Yes,  I  always 
suspected  you  were  not  good,  and  now  I  am  thor- 
oughly convinced  of  it."  She  gazed  at  him  a  mo- 
ment in  speculative  interest,  as  if  he  were  a  monster 
of  depravity  personally  quite  unknown  to  her,  and 
then  dismissed  that  aspect  of  the  case  with  a  wave  of 
the  hand.  "  There's  one  more  thing,"  she  resumed. 
"  To-morrow  night  at  home — if  Jack  doesn't  go  to 
lodge — I  shall  tell  him  the  whole  story,  every  word." 

"  Good  heavens !  he  will  shoot  me !" 


\ 


^ 


236 


ADRIFT, 


"  If  you  do  such  things,  you  must  expect  to  be 
shot." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  about  that;  it's  you  I  am  think- 
ing of.  There  will  be  a  scandal,  and  you  will  be  the 
sufferer.  You  have  done  nothing,  yet  your  husband 
v.'ili  never  forgive  you." 

"  Yes,  he  will ;  I  am  sure  he  will ;  but  even  if  he 
does  not,  and  sends  me  out  West  and  gets  a  divorce, 
— or  however  it's  done, — I  should  prefer  even  that 
to  keeping  a  secret  with  a  stranger  from  my  own 
husband." 

After  a  moment's  anxious  thought  Stephen  yielded 
the  point.  He  knew  that  before  she  met  her  hus- 
band there  would  be  a  decided  reaction  in  her  mind, 
and  he  was  not  afraid  to  depend  on  her  ultimate  dis- 
cretion. 

"  If  only  things  had  not  come  to  guiU  such  a 
pass!"  she  mourned.  "  I  really  should  not  so  much 
have  minded  your  feeling  if  I  had  never  known  of 
it;  that  is,  if  I  could  think  still,  as  I  did  until  last 
evening,  that  it  was  just  a  hazy  imagining,  a  foolish 
fancy  of  my  own.  But  after  that  climax  I  cannot 
doubt  and  equivocate  to  myself  any  more  ;  it's  a  sad, 
sad  fact  to  be  faced  and  lived  down  by  both  of  us. 
And  it's  one  of  the  things  that  won't  bear  discussion. 
Some  troubles  you  can  talk  over  and  dissipate  in 
doing  so;  but  this!  Every  moment  we  spend  to- 
gether makes  it  worse.     I  must  go." 

She  rose,  and  Stephen  made  little  effort  to  detain 
her,  relying  fully  upon  the  hope  of  seeing  her  to- 
morrow in  a  more  placable  spirit.  The  rain  had  at 
last  ceased,  and  in  the  west  a  broad  band  of  orange 


ADRIFT. 


237 


-^ 


belted  ♦^hc  horizon.  Overhead  the  dark-blue  clouds 
showeu  no  signs  of  breaking  away,  but  hung  low, 
heavy,  and  threatening  above  the  earth  lying  forever 
at  their  mercy. 

Belb  went  out  of  the  summer-house,  and,  as  Ste- 
phen followed,  turned  to  face  him. 

"There's  yet  one  thing  more,"  she  faltered,  her 
composure  for  the  first  time  giving  way.  Her  cheeks 
were  carmine,  and  she  seemed  to  be  intently  study- 
ing the  monogram  on  her  silver  umbrella-handle. 
**  It's  this  :  Jack  will  forgive  me  and  forget  it  all ;  but 
you  !  Shall  you  think,  when  you  never  se  j  me  any 
more,  that  I  was  a  light  woman,  a  coquette?  Shall 
you  believe  that  I  have  ever  let  other  men  talk  to 
me  as  you  have  done  ?" 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  piteous  entreaty,  and  as 
she  finished  raised  her  eyes,  full  of  anguish,  to  Ste- 
phen's. He  groaned  at  the  impotence  of  language ; 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  might  as  well  be  silent,  so 
inadequate  were  mere  words  to  express  what  he  felt. 
He  took  her  disengaged  hand  in  his  and  pressed  his 
lips  upon  it. 

"  Bella,  dearest,  even  more  than  I  love  you  I  ad- 
mire and  respect  you.  I  can  never  think  of  you  ex- 
cept as  the  sweetest  woman  that  ever  drew  breath. 
You  will  be  just  like  a  white  star  in  my  memory 
always  1" 

•'  It  would  be  harder  than  anything  else  to  bear, — 
knowing  that  you  despised  me  and  thought  lightly 
of  me,"  she  went  on,  her  lips  quivering  like  a  griev- 
ing child's. 

"  Never,  my  darling,  never  1     You  have  been  all 


1 1 


238 


ADRIFT, 


innocence,  all  goodness  to  me.  It  has  blessed  me  to 
know  you  ;  it  has  made  me  a  better  man.  As  long 
as  I  live  I  shall  feel  your  uplifting  influence,  my  love, 
my  queen !" 

"  I'm  so  glad !"  whispered  Bella,  well  content. 
"  And  now, — good-by,  Stephen  !" 

He  kissed  her  hand  once  more  and  released  it, 
and  she  walked  away,  turning  once,  her  face  rosy- 
white  against  the  perennial  green  of  the  pines,  to 
smile  back  a  last  farewell. 

The  young  man  re-entered  the  summer-house  and 
sat  thinking  and  smoking  till  the  mist  Trom  the  riv^er 
below  came  ^weeping  up  in  vast  multitudinous  bil- 
lows, and  the  brilliant  belt  of  orange  faded  to  pale 
gold,  chilling  slowly  out  of  the  sky.  Then  he  went 
home,  dined  with  relish,  and  spent  a  not  disagreeable 
evening  among  Marcy  Forrester's  books.  He  was 
no  longer  restless  and  unhappy,  as  he  had  been  in 
New  York ;  Bella  had  uttered  her  invincible  repug- 
nance to  him  and  to  his  avowals,  and  that  was  the 
last  he  should  hear  of  it ;  he  had  let  her  have  her 
innings  to-day,  and  he  felt  that  the  morrow  ought  to 
bring  some  compensation  to  him. 

He  went  to  bed  at  midnight,  and  slept  soundly 
for  some  hours,  when  he  woke  suddenly,  in  the  gray 
of  earliest  dawn,  with  a  horrible  confused  sense  of 
trouble  and  distress,  from  out  of  which  the  dream 
that  had  aroused  him  gradually  evolved  itself  into 
distinctness. 

He  had  seen  a  vision,  real  and  clear  as  the  actual- 
ity had  been,  of  Bella  as  he  last  beheld  her  that  after- 
noon, standing  against  the  sombre  green,  smiling, 


ADRIFT. 


239 


blushing,  an  indescribable  tenderness  in  her  eyes. 
As  he  gazed  at  her  a  tiny  crevice  crept  along  the 
earth  between  them,  widening  to  a  fissure  and  then 
to  a  terrible  ragged  rent  that  thrust  them  in  an  in- 
stant far  apart,  and  changed  the  tenderness  of  Bella's 
eyes  to  wild  alarm.  Slowly  the  earth  began  to  re- 
cede from  its  foundations,  trees  tottered,  rocks  fell, 
and  still  Stephen  stood  helpless,  despairing,  faint 
with  the  misery  of  seeing  his  beloved  so  reft  away 
from  him.  He  could  not  save  her, — no,  but  he  could 
die  with  her !  and  with  one  mighty  effort  he  leaped 
over  the  chasm  to  her  side,  and  clasped  her  in  his 
arms,  and  they  bravely  faced  their  awful  doom  to- 
gether, looking  not  on  the  havoc  around  them,  but 
only  into  each  other's  eyes,  with  a  passionate  rap- 
ture even  chaos  could  not  subdue.  For  chaos  reigned 
once  more,  in  the  crash  with  which  at  last  the  whole 
bank  caved  away  and  came  tumbling  and  hurtling 
down  in  utter  disintegration,  amid  a  whirlwind  of 
dust  and  riven  stones  and  crumbling  earth,  amid  the 
roar  of  trees  uprooted  and  sundering  rocks,  amid  the 
rush  of  streams  loosed  from  their  dark  prisons  in  the 
rocky  wall.  And  Stephen  pressed  Bella's  face  against 
his  breast,  and  bowed  his  head  upon  her  hair,  and 
closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  their  last 
worst  agony.  And  then  they  sunk  together,  still  in 
that  close  embrace,  down,  down  through  the  lucent 
green  Niagara,  and  all  the  torn  dismembered  earth 
heaped  itself  around  and  over  them  to  be  their  grave, 
and  the  one  greatest  rock  of  all  ftUng  its  tremendous 
mass  upon  them  and  closed  the  door  of  their  sepul- 
chre forever. 


240 


ADRIFT. 


The  horror  of  this  dream  projected  itself  beyond 
Stephen's  waking,  and  he  rose  from  bed  trembling, 
with  cold  drops  of  perspiration  on  his  brow.  He 
dressed,  descended  the  stairs,  put  on  his  hat  and 
overcoat,  and  went  out-doors,  knowing  instinctively 
that  the  oppression  of  his  dream  would  not  be  dis- 
pelled until  he  had  seen  her,  or  had  at  least  seen  the 
chamber- windows  within  which  she  was  peacefully 
sleeping.  He  walked  briskly  along  the  road,  not 
caring  to  go  by  the  garden  path  which  was  the  scene 
of  his  vision,  and  he  had  nearly  passed  Diana's 
house  before  anything  occurred  to  justify  his  vague 
terror.  As  he  came  opposite  the  hall-door  he  saw 
Maggie  standing  on  the  threshold,  straining  her  eyes 
through  the  semi-obscurity  to  make  him  out.  When 
she  saw  who  he  was  she  ran  out  to  the  road  and 
clutched  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Brooks !  she's  sick,  .she's  dying !"  she 
cried. 

He  could  not  speak,  not  even  to  deny  it ;  he  had 
feared  something  like  this  ever  since  he  woke. 

"  Mrs.  Forrester,  I  mean,"  the  girl  went  on.  "  She 
went  out  in  that  rain  yesterday  and  came  home  all 
fagged  out,  with  her  skirts  and  shoulders  damp ; 
but  I  couldn't  get  her  to  change  her  clothes  and 
drink  something  hot.  She  just  sat  and  stared  out 
of  her  bedroom  window  in  a  wretched  kind  of  way, 
and  when  I  went  to  bed  she  was  sitting  there  still. 
About  one  o'clock  I  heard  her  moving,  and  went 
into  her  room.  She  said  she  was  going  to  have 
pneumonia;  she  had  had  it  before,  and  knew  just 
what  to  do.     She  took  some  medicine,  but  it  didn't 


ADRIFT. 


241 


seem  to  help  her  any,  and  her  fever  got  higher  and 
higher  till  it  was  just  raging.  I  made  up  a  rousing 
fire  in  the  sitting-room  and  drew  a  lounge  close  up  to 
it,  and  she  lay  there  all  night.  Her  mind  wandered 
a  little, — she  talked  about  being  in  the  rapids  and 
going  over  the  Falls," 

"  Go  on  !"  gasped  Stephen. 

"  Well,  I  didn't  dare  leave  her  to  go  for  a  doctor, 
let  alone  walking  all  alone  over  that  dark  road  in  the 
dead  of  night.  A  little  while  ago  the  fever  went 
away  and  she  fell  asleep,  and  I  went  around  and  put 
out  the  lights ;  I  thought  it  would  make  it  seem  as 
if  daylight  were  coming  sooner.  She  is  sleeping 
there  still,  and  to  look  at  her  you'd  think  she  might 
die  any  minute." 

"  It  can't  be  so  bad  as  that,"  Stephen  managed  to 
say.  "  I'll  run  back  and  bring  Ellen  over,  and  send 
John  for  Dr.  Tevan." 

"  No,  no !"  cried  Maggie,  in  a  fresh  access  of 
terror.  She  had  evidently  been  overwrought  by 
the  night  of  anxiety.  "  Don't  ask  me  to  stay  alone 
in  that  dreadful  house  another  moment.  Just  think ! 
what  if  anything  should  happen" — Stephen  shud- 
dered at  the  paraphrase — "  and  me  there  all  alone 
with  her !  I'll  go  for  Ellen.  You  can  listen  in  the 
hall  below.  She  will  not  wake  for  an  hour  yet." 
And  before  he  could  stop  her  she  was  fleeing  rapidly 
down  the  road. 

He  could  have  run  after  her  and  struck  her  for  her 

cowardice.     "  My   poor    Bella !   as   if  you    had   the 

pestilence !"    he    muttered.     He    knew    that    if    she 

really  had  pneumonia  and  had  been  able  to  break  up 

L       g  21 


If 


242 


ADRIFT. 


the  fever  so  soon,  that  she  was  now  practically  out 
of  danger,  unless  a  relapse  or  some  complication 
should  set  in ;  but  this  reflection  had  no  power  to 
quiet  his  apprehensions.  He  entered  the  house  and 
stood  listening  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  For  many- 
minutes  the  snapping  of  the  fire  was  the  only  sound 
audible ;  the  morning  light  grew  stronger  and  poured 
in  a  flood  of  purple,  crimson,  and  orange  through 
the  little  rose-window  on  the  landing.  At  last  a 
faint  call,  hardly  above  a  whisper,  floated  down  to 
him. 

"Maggie!" 

He  ran  lightly  up-stairs  and  paused  in  the  upper 
hall  just  outside  of  the  portiere  dividing  it  from  the 
sitting-room.  If  he  could  but  be  of  some  use, — if 
she  would  only  permit  him  to  serve  her,  to  lift  her 
head  and  hold  a  glass  of  water  to  her  lips! 

"  Maggie  is  not  here ;  she  has  gone  for  Ellen,  and 
will  be  back  in  a  moment,"  he  explained,  gently,  his 
heart  beating  to  suffocation.  "  No  one  is  in  the 
house  but  myself, — Stephen  Brooks.  Can  I  do  any- 
thing for  you  ?" 

A  silence  ensued,  so  long  that  he  hoped  she  had 
lapsed  into  slumber  again.  But  presently  she  whis- 
pered "  Come  in !"  and  he  pushed  aside  the  portiere 
and  entered. 

She  lay  on  the  lounge  beneath  a  fleecy  weight  of 
blankets ;  she  wore  a  white  wool  dressing-gown,  and 
her  shoulders  and  throat  were  wrapped  in  a  creamy 
shawl.  The  fire  was  sparkling  and  glowing  close  at 
hand,  but  ail  this  artificial  warmth  could  not  dissi- 
pate a  certain  deadly  chill  Stephen  saw  in  her  face. 


ADRIFT. 


243 


which  the  last  twelve  hours  had  drained  of  all  its 
swift  red  blood.  Her  eyes  were  sunken ;  the  couch 
with  its  white  draperies  had  the  semblance  of  a  bier ; 
the  only  spots  of  color  about  her  were  the  golden 
glitter  of  the  gem  on  her  hand,  and  the  ruddy  reflec- 
tions of  the  firelight  on  the  shining  waves  of  hair 
that  strayed  over  the  pillow. 

"  Stephen !"  she  murmured.  "  Dear  Stephen,  I  am 
not  going  to  get  well." 

He  began  some  inarticulate  protest,  but  she 
checked  him. 

"  No,  I  am  not, — I  know  it.  It  is  better  so.  Do 
you  know  how  it  would  have  ended  if  I  had  lived  ? 
I  am  a  poor  weak  thing,  with  a  mind  like  shifting 
sand,  and  it  would  have  ended  in  my  running  away 
with  you." 

"  Hush  !  don't  say  such  things  !"  implored  Stephen. 

"  But  I  shall  not  tell  Jack,"  she  went  on.  "  There 
is  time  for  mg4o  tell  him,  but  not  time  to  make  him 
understand  it  and  pardon  me." 

"  He  haa  nothing  to  pardon  you  r  cried  Stephen. 

"  And  now,  dear,  you  must  go !"  She  extended 
her  hand,  and  the  young  man  advanced  and  knelt  at 
her  side  as  at  a  shrine.  Gently  he  took  her  hand  in 
his  own  and  laid  his  forehead  on  it ;  with  her  other 
hand  Bella  smoothed  his  hair  a  moment.  "  Thank 
you  for  thinking  me  nice,"  she  said,  scarcely  above 
her  breath.  "  Don't  mourn  for  me  too  long,  dear 
Stephen ;  but  oh,  don't  quite  forget  me !" 

"  Never,  never !"  he  cried,  passionately.  An  irre- 
sistible conviction  of  her  imminent  danger  mastered 
him,  and,  unable  to  utter  a  single  word  of  hope  or 


244 


ADRIFT. 


cheer,  he  got  himself  to  the  door- way.  On  the 
threshold  he  turned ;  she  had  already  closed  her 
eyes  and  seemed  to  be  again  asleep,  and,  with  a 
burning  moisture  dimming  his  own  eyes,  he  went 
softly  down-stairs. 

There  he  waited,  his  whole  consciousness  merged 
into  a  voiceless  prayer  for  her  life,  till  Maggie  and 
Ellen  came.  In  a  few  minutes  Dr.  Tevan  arrived; 
he  reported,  as  Stephen  had  foreseen,  that  the  prompt 
abatement  of  the  fever  had  reduced  the  amount  of 
danger  to  a  minimum,  but  at  the  patient's  request 
he  sent  Stephen  to  telegraph  for  her  husband. 

Forrest,-r  came  on  the  earliest  possible  train,  ac- 
companied by  the  physician  who  had  attended  Bella 
from  her  infancy.  Diana  returned  from  her  journey, 
and  Mrs.  Bromley  came  down  in  the  afternoon ;  the 
whole  house  pulsated  with  anxiety.  To  Stephen  it 
seemed  a  year  since  that  night  he  had  hastened  from 
the  station  and  had  found  Bella  in  her  bewitching 
dress,  with  the  pink  roses  on  her  breast  shaking  out 
their  wealth  of  fragrance. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 


"  Now  that  I  talk  men  dig  my  grave  for  me 
Out  in  the  rain,  and  in  a  little  while 
I  shall  be  thrust  in  some  sad  space  of  earth 
Out  of  your  eyes ;  I  am  afraid  to  die, 
For  the  harsh  dust  will  lie  upon  my  face 
Too  thick  to  see  you  pass." 

Swinburne. 


a. 


it 


Three  days  passed,  during  which  Stephen  Brooks 
underwent  an  amount  of  suffering  greater  than  he 
had  supposed  any  mortal,  least  of  all  hmiself,  capable 
of  enduring.  To  stand  with  fettered  hands  and  see 
her  drift  away  over  that  unknown  sea  out  of  his 
reach ;  to  be  in  a  hell  of  remorse  and  baffled  love 
and  pity,  deluded  with  false  hopes,  racked  with  wild 
despair;  to  have  the  agony  of  knowing  her  illness 
to  be  the  punishment  for  his  own  madness, — this, 
and  a  thousand  times  this,  was  his  portion  in  those 
three  days. 

There  was  no  outlet  possible  ior  the  bitter  stream 
of  self-communing  in  whose  waters  was  not  one 
sweet  drop ;  he  could  not  even  try  to  utter  his  un- 
utterable pain,  for  he  dared  not  hint  of  his  feeling  to 
any  living  soul ;  he  could  only  call  at  the  house 
several  times  a  day  and  inquire  for  the  invalid  in  a 
perfunctory  manner,  guarding  all  the  time  lest  the 
quiver  of  an  eyelash,  a  break  ?n  the  voice  should 
betray  him.     The  confident  expectations  of  her  re- 

245 


i 


21^ 


t 


V 


246 


ADRIFT, 


covery  had  proved  fallacious,  and  it  was  undeniable 
that  she  was  very  ill.  He  longed  to  question  Maggie 
or  Elfen,  and  learn  the  minute  particulars  no  one 
seemed  to  think  he  would  be  interested  in ;  but  for 
Bella's  own  sake  he  refrained.  He  had  an  insane 
fancy  that  if  he  could  be  with  her  and  hold  her  hands 
tight  in  his  own  the  mere  physical  constraint  could 
somehow  keep  her  soul  on  earth.  He  made  almost 
no  attempt  to  sleep,  but  paced  up  and  down  half  the 
night  near  the  house,  and  when  at  last  he  forced  him- 
self to  leave  the  spot,  he  trembled  lest  she  should  pass 
away  during  his  absence ;  he  felt  that  he  must  be  as 
near  her  as  he  could  in  that  last  awful  struggle. 

He  had  long  ceased  to  analyze  his  feelings  about 
her,  to  compare  her  with  other  women  "  lightly  won 
and  lightly  lost"  before  he  knew  her.  She  was  just 
herself,  and,  being  so,  was  sun  and  stars  and  earth 
to  him.  All  joy,  goodness,  holiness,  all  pure  and 
noble  thoughts,  all  high  ambitions,  all  dreams  of 
usefulness,  centred  about  her.  He  had  not  at  first 
deemed  his  sentiment  for  her  any  different  from 
many  others  he  had  known ;  but  now  he  recognized 
that  it  implied  truth  instead  of  falseness,  renunciation 
instead  of  self-indulgence,  love  instead  of  passion,  a 
lifetime  instead  of  a  few  fleeting  weeks.  A  lifetime  ! 
Yes,  he  loved  Bella  Forrester  with  the  unchanging 
love  that  "  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom." 

He  should  always  love  her,  he  knew,  even  if — if 

But  it  made  him  giddy  to  think  of  going  on  year 
after  year  with  this  hopeless  ache  in  his  breast,  while 
the  grass  waved  lightly  and  the  senseless  birds  sang 
on  and  on  above  her  grave. 


ADRIFT. 


247 


It  could  not  be !  They  would  surely  save  her. 
She  was  precious  to  so  many, — God  would  put  forth 
His  hand  and  thrust  the  pale  Destroyer  from  his 
victim.  That  nature  of  childlike  sweetness  and  sim- 
plicity, that  generous  spirit,  that  bright  intellect,  that 
sunny  smile,  those  gentle  wistful  eyes, — must  these 
all  go  the  way  of  dusty  death?  No,  it  couli  not 
be! 

And  yet, — oh,  to  pierce  the  walls  of  her  dying 
chamber  with  one  word  of  love,  of  comfort,  before 
the  deep  irrevocable  silence  should  roll  between 
them !  Oh,  to  tell  her  in  passionate  accents  that 
should  penetrate  the  ear  already  growing  dull  and 
cold  how  her  sainted  memory  would  make  him  a 
better  man,  and  more  worthy  to  have  known  her ! 
Oh,  to  yield  every  drop  of  blood  leaping  through 
his  own  veins,  if  so  she  might  be  saved !  Oh,  to 
fling  himself  on  his  knees  beside  her  and  receive  her 
last  fluttering  breath  on  his  lips ;  to  uphold  and 
strengthen  and  help  her ;  to  guide  her  shrinking  feet 
to  the  very  verge  of  the  dark  valley ;  to  make  the 
knowledge  of  his  undying  love  her  last  conscious- 
ness on  earth ! 

At  last  the  silence  broke  and  the  curtain  lifted  a 
little.  Diana  answered  his  ring  late  in  the  evening 
of  the  third  day,  and  at  the  first  glimpse  of  her  Ste- 
phen knew  that  she  had  improvement  to  report. 
She  came  out  upon  the  veranda  and  closed  the  door 
behind  her. 

"  There  is  hope  ?"  he  cried. 

"  The  merest  thread  only,  but  even  that  Is  more 
than  we  have  dared  to  say  hitherto.     Poor  thing! 


248 


ADRIFT, 


she  is  as  variable  as  ever.  One  minute  she  beseeches 
us  not  to  let  her  die,  and  the  next  time  she  is  able  to 
speak  she  says  she  is  quite  willing  to  go.  It  gave 
us  all  a  great  shock  this  afternoon  when  she  made 
her  will." 

An  electric  thrill  of  anguish  ran  through  Stephen, 
and  his  heart  contracted  in  a  spasm  of  pain.  He 
dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  but  Diana  mar- 
velled at  the  haggardness  of  his  face  as  the  light  fell 
upon  it  through  the  stained  glass  of  the  door. 

"  She  could  not  write,"  Diana  went  on,  "  but  she 
managed  to  whisper  how  she  wished  to  dispose  of 
her  jewelry  and  books.  She  remembered  us  all, — 
Mr.  Harvey,  the  servants,  every  one.  She  wanted 
us  to  have  the  things,  she  said,  even  if  she  recovered. 
We  thought  the  exertion  would  exhaust  her,  but  she 
seemed  to  rally  after  it,  and  has  been  better  ever 
since." 

*'  Thank  God  !     Thank  God  !" 

**  And  this  is  what  she  sent  you,  Mr.  Brooks,"  re- 
sumed Diana,  giving  him  a  little  parcel.  *'  It's  a 
curious  ring  Marcy  Forrester  gave  her.  She  values 
it  highly,  though  she  has  only  worn  it  a  few  days. 
She  drew  it  from  her  finger  and  wrapped  it  in  that 
paper,  just  as  it  is  now." 

"  There  was  no  message  ?" 

"  None ;  you  know  every  word  costs  her  an  effort 
to  utter.     She  only  said  *  For  Mr.  Brooks.'  " 

"  Better  so,"  thought  Stephen.  "  Better  silence 
than  only  such  a  message  as  could  come  through 
the  mouth  of  another."  Then,  *'  You  say  there  is 
hope, — you  are  sure  of  it  ?" 


ADRIFT. 


249 


"  We  are  sure  of  it,  I  am  happy  to  say,"  was  the 
answer;  and  then  Stephen  was  left  alone  in  the  dark- 
ness. He  hurried  home  with  a  bounding  heart,  went 
to  his  room,  and  examined  the  token  she  had  sent 
him.  It  was  sweet  of  her  to  think  of  him  in  spite 
of  her  weakness  and  pain ;  it  was  sweet  of  her  to 
wrap  the  ring  away  from  all  other  human  touch,  so 
that  fresh  from  the  contact  of  her  finger  it  might 
come  to  circle  his  own.  He  folded  the  paper  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket-book,  so  dear  to  him  was  the 
veriest  trifle  her  hands  had  held,  and  slipped  the  ring 
on  his  finger.  Whether  Bella  lived  or  died,  he  meant 
that  ring  to  shine  on  his  finger  in  his  coffin. 

But  she  would  live !  Diana  had  said  there  was 
hope.  Blessed  word!  He  repeated  it  in  his  heart 
over  and  over  again  throughout  the  evening,  while 
he  made  an  empty  show  of  reading,  or  talked  ab- 
sently with  Jerome. 

When  they  had  separated  for  the  night  the  inevi- 
table doubt  and  fear  crept  back  into  his  mind.  "  The 
merest-  thread"  of  hope,  Diana  had  said.  Ah,  if  that 
thread  should  break  !  All  that  money,  all  that  skill 
could  do  was  being  done ;  but  how  often  the  highest 
human  aid  proved  futile  !  The  teachings  of  his  bo}'- 
hood  came  back  to  him  with  an  importunate  knock- 
ing that  would  not  be  denied,  and  at  last  he  bent 
his  stubborn  knees,  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
breathed  forth  a  prayer  in  a  sobbing  whisper.  He 
knew  not  either  then  or  afterwards  what  he  said,  he 
only  knew  that  his  heart  was  winnowed  of  all  selfish- 
ness and  evil,  and  that  he  was  willing  at  last  never 
to  see  her  again,  to  go  away  and  be  forgotten  of  her, 


250 


ADKIFT. 


if  that  sacrifice  would  keep  her  on  the  warm,  sweet 
earth,  among  the  flowers  and  birds  and  sunshine. 
Pitiful  God !  let  him  atone  by  all  his  coming  life  for 
his  sins,  and  strike  him  not  through  that  dear  one ! 
She  was  so  young  to  die  1  Strengthen  those  faint 
and  weary  limbs,  O  Lord,  and  breathe  back  the 
breath  of  life  through  those  pallid  lips !  Oh,  what 
was  he  to  ask  this  priceless  boon  ?  Nothing, — worse 
than  nothing ;  but  for  her  own  sake,  for  Christ's 
sake,  save  her,  Lord,  oh,  save  her ! 

He  rose,  strangely  comforted  by  the  exercise  of 
the  faith  forgotten  since  his  childhood,  and  threw 
himself  on  his  bed.  He  did  not  mean  to  sleep,  but 
he  was  tired  out  by  his  long  vigil,  and  lulled  by  an 
unwonted  sense  of  hope  and  security,  and  after  a 
few  moments'  dreamy  meditation  he  closed  his  eyes 
and  slept  for  hours. 

He  woke  at  dawn,  as  he  had  done  four  days  be- 
fore, but  not  with  that  former  sense  of  oppression 
and  alarm.  When  he  had  dressed  and  gone  out  into 
the  open  air  he  thought  the  weather  alone  sufificient 
to  cause  renewed  cheer.  There  was  neither  wind 
nor  frost,  and  the  atmosphere  had  the  delicious 
freshness  of  spring ;  the  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but 
a  golden  haze  in  the  east  heralded  his  coming;  the 
vast  arch  overhead  was  of  summer's  deep  unsearch- 
able blue.  Almost  all  the  leaves  had  fallen,  and  they 
lay  in  wet  yellow  heaps,  forerunners  of  the  coming 
snow-drifts,  just  where  the  latest  breeze  had  blown 
them ;  they  sent  up,  in  unconquered  beneficence,  an 
odor  as  sweet  and  welcome  as  their  shade  had  ever 
been. 


ADRIFT. 


251 


It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  as  Stephen  walked 
briskly  along  the  road  it  seemed  to  him  that  in  the 
fitness  of  things  good  news  must  be  awaiting  him. 
It  was  too  early  yet  to  go  to  the  door,  and  as  he 
neared  the  house  he  paused  and  waited,  leaning 
against  a  tree,  and  screened  from  observation  by  the 
shrubbery.  The  place  was  wrapped  in  tranquillity 
and  peace,  as  if  the  angel  of  healing  had  indeed  de- 
scended upon  it  during  the  night,  and  the  young 
man's  heart  refused  to  frame  any  forebodings. 

"She  is  much  better;  she  is  out  of  danger;  she 
sleeps;  and  if  she  sleeps  she  shall  do  well,"  he 
mused. 

While  he  stood  thus  gazing,  serene,  happy, 
almost  elate,  a  man  came  out  of  the  house  and 
fastened  something  to  the  bell-handle  .  .  .  some- 
thing black  .  .  .  black  crape. 

In  her  last  conscious  moment  she  had  begged 
them  not  to  take  her  home  when  all  was  over,  and 
accordingly  a  grave  was  prepared  in  the  plot  of 
ground  where  Marcy  Forrester's  remains  had  been 
laid,  and  the  simple  funeral  was  held  in  Diana's 
house.  Stephen,  Jerome,  and  four  older  friends 
from  Buffalo  acted  as  bearers.  There  were  masses 
of  roses  and  carnations  in  that  profusion  whose 
cloying  sweetness  fills  the  soul  with  a  loathing  of 
flowers  long  afterwards.  There  was  the  subdued 
rustle  of  draperies,  the  low  whispers,  the  half- 
suppressed  sobs,  the  calm  voice  of  the  minister, 
the  music  with  its  vibrant  thrill  of  pain,  the  final 
gaze  down  into  the  face  so  strangely  white  and 
quiet.     Only    one    thing    enabled    Stephen    to   go 


\% 


2;2 


ADRIFT. 


through  all  this  without  utterly  breaking  down, 
as  many  around  him  did, — the  resolve  to  let  no 
one  guess  chat  he  had  dared  to  adore  her.  Even 
when  his  hands  had  helped  to  place  her  in  her  nar- 
row grave  and  the  earth  was  falling  cold  and  heavy 
upon  her,  he  still  stood  with  the  same  composure. 
But  he  could  not  control  the  currents  of  his  blood, 
and  his  face  was  of  a  frightful  dark  pallor. 

That  evening,  when  those  who  came  down  from 
Buffalo  had  returned  thither,  John  Forrester  stood 
in  the  hall  of  Diana's  house  bidding  Mrs.  Bromley 
good-night.  Diana  had  already  retired,  worn  out 
and  sorrowful.  Viviette  had  promised  to  remain  her 
guest  for  a  few  days,  to  break  the  first  shock  of  lone- 
liness. John  was  to  spend  the  night  at  his  cousin 
Harvey's.  Just  before  he  went  he  said  in  broken 
tone.s, — 

"  I  feel  that  I  didn't  half  appreciate  her,  Viviette ! 
I  could  see  only  her  faults,  as  I  called  them,  though 
it  seems  now  as  if  her  little  teasing  ways  were  not 
so  very  bad.  And  I  let  her  stay  down  here  all  sum- 
mer, as  if  I  didn't  care  to  have  her  with  me."  His 
face  worked  painfully;  his  sudden  bereavement  had 
greatly  shocked  and  grieved  him. 

"  Dear  j€>hn,  you  have  nothing  with  which  to  re- 
proach yourself,"  Viviette  said,  earnestly.  "  Bella 
never  doubted  your  affection  a  moment.  I  scarcely 
ever  saw  her  that  she  did  not  speak  of  your  unfail- 
ing kindness  and  tenderness.  You  made  her  as 
happy  as  it  was  in  her  nature  to  be." 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  that,"  said  John,  grate- 
fully.    "  I  tried  to  do  my  duty,  indeed  I  did,  and  it 


ADRIFT. 


253 


makes  me  wretched  to  think  she  might  have  fancied 
me  indifferent  or  neglectful.  Your  words  give  me 
the  first  glimpse  of  comfort  I've  had." 

They  said  good-night,  and  Viviette  went  up  to  her 
room.  She  wept,  not  so  much  for  the  death  of  her 
friend  as  for  the  instability  of  human  affections,  the 
disloyalty,  swift  and  certain,  of  the  survivors  to  the 
departed.  Her  husband's  endearments  yet  seemed 
to  linger  in  her  ear ;  the  first  rain  was  descending 
on  Bella's  grave,  and  the  fair  lines  of  her  form  had 
not  yet  fallen  into  nothingness ;  and  already  Viviette 
foresaw  that  she  and  John  Forrester  would  be  con- 
soled. 

No  vision  of  consolation,  no  least  assuagement  of 
his  pain,  came  to  Stephen  Brooks.  Under  the  light 
chill  rain  he  walked  for  hours  that  night  back  and 
forth  past  the  cemetery ;  he  could  not  bear  to  leave 
that  little  mound  in  its  raw  newness  quite  alone.  At 
last  he  went  home,  drenched  and  exhausted,  dropped 
on  his  bed,  and  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep,  through  which 
he  still  was  haunted  by  a  sense  of  irretrievable  loss. 


aa 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

"  A  roofless  ruin  lies  my  home. 

For  winds  to  blow  and  rains  to  pour ; 
One  frosty  night  befell — and  lo ! 

I  find  my  summer  days  are  o'er. 
The  heart  bereaved,  of  why  and  how 
Unknowing,  knows  that  yet  before 
It  had  what  e'en  to  memory  now 
Returns  no  more,  no  more." 

Arthur  Hugh  Clougu. 


The  occurrence  in  quick  succession  of  two  deaths 
in  a  family  gives  the  most  indifferent  survivor  a  shock 
entirely  disproportioned  to  his  affection  for  the  de- 
ceased ones.  It  is  a  menace  against  fancied  security, 
an  appal  ing  reminder  of  the  frailty  of  the  tenure 
upon  which  life  is  held.  Diana  had  disliked  Marcy 
and  had  been  only  mildly  attached  to  Bella,  but  she 
was  profoundly  disquieted  by  the  sudden  demise  of 
the  two  within  a  fortnight  of  each  other.  The  deso- 
lation of  the  house  had  been  greatly  alleviated  by 
Viviette's  presence  for  some  days,  but  she  was  soon 
obliged  to  go  home,  and  after  that  occasional  calls 
from  friends  in  the  neighborhood  were  all  that  broke 
the  monotony  of  the  short  dull  autumn  days.  Of 
these  visitors,  Harvey  was  of  course  the  most  con- 
stant,— Brooks  never  came  at  all, — and  his  quiet 
conversation,  kept  strictly  clear  of  sentimental  top- 
ics, was  a  real  comfort  to  her. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  his  discourse  could 
aS4 


ADRIFT, 


255 


forever  maintain  this  wide  and  impersonal  range,  and 
one  morning  he  casually  observed  that  he  was  going 
away.  This  announcement,  invariably  received  by 
young  ladies  in  stories  with  a  tell-tale  start,  produced 
no  visible  effect  on  Diana. 

"  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  have  you  go,"  she  said, 
in  the  unmoved  way  which  seems  to  divest  a  regret 
,of  all  meaning. 

"  If  I  thought  it  was  a  matter  of  real  sorrow  to 
you,  I  wouldn't  think  of  going,"  protested  Jerome, 
warmly. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  dissuade  him.  "  Pray 
don't  take  me  into  consideration  at  all,"  she  said. 
"Your  time  is  wasted  here.  There  is  so  much  work 
to  be  done  out  in  the  world.  I  tnink  you  will  be 
very  wise  to  go." 

"  There  was  a  time,  not  so  very  long  ago,"  said  the 
young  man,  rather  sadly,  "  when  that  was  my  only 
purpose  in  life, — to  work,  to  do  good,  to  lessen  a 
little  the  evil  lying  all  around  me.  But  that  pur- 
pose has  been  wholly  superseded  by  another,  more 
selfish,  more  absorbing." 

Diana  said  nothing,  but  she  favored  him  with  the 
same  cold  direct  glance  she  had  bent  on  him  the 
very  first  time  they  met. 

"  You  know  to  what  I  refer,"  he  went  on.  "  I  can 
think  of  nothing  but  you  until  you  have  promised 
to  marry  me, — until  you  are  actually  my  wife." 

"  Oh !  do  you  wish  to  intimate  that  as  soon  as  I 
became  your  wife  your  attentions  would  relax,  your 
ardor  would  wane?  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said 
Diana,  calmly. 


256 


ADRIFT. 


"  I  did  not  mean  that  at  all.  How  can  you  pre- 
tend you  believe  that  absurdity?  Don't  you  know 
that  I  should  not  cease  to  care  for  you  if  we  were 
married  fifty  years  ?" 

Diana  evaded  the  question.  "  I  have  always  felt 
that  you  did  not  truly  love  me,  and  did  not  deserve 
the  lover's  reward,"  she  said.  "  It  is  only  because  I 
am  unattainable  that  I  am  desirable.  If  you  offer  a 
child  one  of  two  balloons,  so  exactly  similar  that  he 
cannot  choose  between  them,  and  one  breaks  the 
string  and  is  lost,  that  is  the  one  he  will  cry  for  and 
refuse  to  resign." 

Jerome  did  not  dispute  the  aptitude  of  this  illus- 
tration.    "  If  we  were  married "  he  began. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  say  if^ — to  think  of  it  as  in  the 
remotest  degree  possible !"  interrupted  Diana,  with 
some  heat. 

"  We  could  go  shoulder  to  shoulder  through 
whatever  happy  experiences  earth  affords.  We 
could  travel " 

"  I  have  travelled ;  I  have  seen  all  the  places  that 
have  any  interest  for  me." 

"  We  could  go  into  society " 

"  Oh,  I  tried  that,  too,  for  years  after  I  left  school. 
One  can  get  just  as  tired  of  amusements  as  of  any- 
thing else." 

"  Well,  you  are  fond  of  study,  of  science,  Diana. 
Would  you  not  like  to  go  where  you  will  meet  men 
renowned  in  those  fields  ?" 

"  I  can  go  alone  if  I  wish  to." 

"  What  books  can  you  have  access  to  here  ?  what 
pictures,  what  concerts ?" 


ADRIFT. 


25; 


"  If  you  found  the  place  so  insupportable,"  said 
Diana,  impatiently,  "  why  have  you  remained  here 
all  summer?" 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  very  well  in  the  summer ;  but  in 
winter,  with  no  neighbor  for  miles, — Stephen  and  I 
leave  to-morrow  morning, — with  the  snow  above  the 
fences !  You  might  as  well  live  in  a  primeval  forest, 
in  the  backwoods,  or  on  a  farm !" 

Diana  laughed.  "  I  am  thinking,"  she  remarked, 
serenely,  "  of  selling  this  property  and  buying  a 
farm." 

"  Would  you  really  like  it  ?  I  will  buy  a  farm. 
Nothing  could  be  sweeter, — to  be  married  and  live 
on  a  farm  all  this  winter,  shut  into  a  little  world  of 
oui  own,  our  sole  duty  to  care  for  the  helpless  ani- 
mals in  our  charge,  the  cows,  the  sheep " 

'"And  all  the  little  Q\{\c\iuns  in  the  gdivdunf 
mocked  Diana.  "  Maggie  sings  a  song  of  which 
that  is  the  pleasing  refrain." 

"  For  the  twentieth  time  I  ask  you,"  said  Jerome, 
in  desperation, — "  will  you  marry  me  ?" 

"  For  the  twentieth  time  I  reply.  No !  First  and 
last,  yesterday,  to-day,  and  to-morrow,  No !" 

"  But  why  not  ?  Why  not,  Diana  ?  Give  me 
some  reason.     Surely  you  owe  me  that  much." 

"  I  do  not  acknowledge  the  debt.  I  have  never 
sought  to  attract  you.  I  told  you  I  did  not  intend 
to  marry,  long  before  you  asked  me.  And  besides, 
I  have  no  special  reason." 

"  If  a  woman  has  no  special  reason,  no  good  cause 

for  refusing  a  man,  it  is  her  duty  to  accept  him," 

declared  Jerome. 

r  22* 


258 


ADRIFT, 


Diana  smiled  derisively,  and  Jerome,  feeling  that  he 
had  gone  rather  beyond  his  depth,  hastened  to  add, — 

"  I  mean  that  a  woman  should  be  too  merciful  to 
condemn  a  man  to  loneliness  without  a  sufficient 
reason.  Tell  me,  Diana,  what  is  the  obstacle  in  my 
way  ?  If  it  is  anything  that  time,  patience,  earnest 
effort  can  remove,  they  shall  not  be  wanting." 

"  There  is  no  obstacle,  except  my  indifference." 

"  But  if  indifference  is  the  only  feeling  possible  to 
your  nature  ?"  argued  Jerome,  reckless  of  the  omi- 
nous flash  in  Diana's  soft  brown  eyes.  "  I  assure 
you  it  seems  to  me  far  from  being  objectionable, — 
I  prefer  a  placid " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  what  you  prefer !"  exclaimed 
Diana,  stormily.  "  It  is  no  compliment  to  be  called 
cold  and  stoical.  I  ant, — I  know  I  am, — but  I  can't 
help  it,  and  I'm  not  proud  of  it!" 

Harvey  had  never  before  seen  her  exhibit  the  least 
approach  to  anger,  and  he  rejoiced  in  her  flushing 
cheeks  and  in  the  nervous  tattoo  of  her  small  fingers 
on  the  table.  She  was  m  t  such  a  snow  woman,  after 
all. 

"  Please  believe  that  I  had  no  intention  of  offend- 
ing you,"  he  said,  meekly.  "Forgive  me!  I  en- 
treat you  to  forgive  me !" 

Dianai  disregarded  this  humble  appeal.  "  I  was 
wrong, — there  is  another  obstacle,  and  an  insuperable 
one,"  she  said.  "  It  is  pride.  Do  you  suppose  I  will 
ever  yield  after  my  asseverations  to  the  contrary  ?  I 
should  die  of  shame  to  find  myself  so  vacillating." 

"  What  does  it  matter  what  you  have  said  ?  No 
one  knows  it  but  me,  and  I  consent  to  overlook  it." 


ADRIFT. 


259 


"  Do  you  suppose,"  Diana  went  on  with  increasing 
vehemence,  ''  that  /  can  consent  to  overloo)-  your 
confidence,  your  arrogance  ?  You  have  always  been 
sure  of  winning  me  in  spite  of  everything.  I  will 
show  you  that  a  woman  can  prize  independence  more 
than  slavery,  and — strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you — 
that  the  sultan  may  sometimes  throw  the  handker- 
chief in  vain !" 

"  I  arrogant  ?  I  confident  ?"  repeated  Jerome  in 
amaze.  "  My  efforts  to  win  you  have  been  unobtru- 
sive and  deprecating  to  the  verge  of  timidity." 

"They  have  been  absolute  persecutions,"  said 
Diana,  succinctly. 

"  I  have  never  felt  sure  of  you, — I  do  not  at  this 
moment." 

"  And  indeed  you  need  not !  Why,  if  there  were 
no  other  reason  whatever,  my  father's  daughter  could 
never  marry  your  father's  son !" 

"  That  is  an  ungenerous  taunt !"  said  Jerome,  pale 
with  wrath. 

"  It  is  you  who  are  ungenerous,  unfair,"  cried 
Diana.  "  You  have  done  everything  in  your  power 
to  make  me  dissatisfied  with  my  chosen  lot.  You 
tried  to  undermine  my  firmest  resolutions,  to  alter 
my  whole  course  of  thought  and  action.  Well,  you 
have  signally  failed,  that  is  all.  The  unwelcome 
element  you  brought  into  my  life  still  remains  un- 
welcome. The  whole  subject  of  love  and  marriage 
is  without  interest  for  me ;  it  wearies,  it  disgusts  me. 
Will  you  never  have  done  forcing  it  upon  my  atten- 
tion ?" 

"  I  have  done  now !"  said  the  young  man,  haughtily, 


26o 


ADRIFT. 


rising  to  go.  "  If  I  had  gained  your  affection,  that 
would  have  justified  fny  importunity.  But  as  you 
say,  I  have  failed,  and  so  even  the  trying  seems  im- 
pertinent." He  bowed  with  ironical  courtesy.  "  Ac- 
cept, Miss  Forrester,  the  assurance  of  my  constant 
regard " 

"  The  regard  is  mutual,"  murmured  Diana,  not  to 
be  outdone  in  politeness. 

"  And  my  sincere  wishes  for  your  future  happiness. 
Good-by !" 

"  Good-by,"  responded  Diana,  and  he  was  out  of 
the  house  in  another  instant.  She  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  watched  his  tall  figure  striding  away,  un- 
able to  ignore  a  little  twinge  of  conscience. 

"  Poor  fellow !  I  certainly  was  very  cutting  and 
severe,"  she  murmured.  "  And  I'm  sorry  we  had  to 
part  in  anger."  She  considered  gravely  a  moment, 
then  added,  "  But  that's  better — worlds  better — than 
not  parting  at  all." 

Harvey  walked  home  in  a  sort  of  repressed  furv, 
and  found  Stephen,  in  spite  of  the  cold,  pacing  back 
and  forth  beneath  the  pines  at  the  foot  of  the  grounds, 
smoking,  and  now  and  then  bending  his  sombre  eyes 
down  upon  the  river  below. 

"  One  would  think  you  a  sentinel,  ordered  to  walk 
this  particular  beat,  you  stay  out  here  so  faithfully," 
said  Jerome.  "  I  should  think  you  would  be  tired 
of  the  spot." 

"  I  am ;  I'm  sick  to  death  of  the  whole  place,"  re- 
plied Stephen,  moodily.  "  I  know  I  hadn't  pluck 
enough  to  pull  up  stakes  and  leave  of  my  own  ac- 
cord ;  but  you'll  own  that  when  you  set  to-morrow 


ADRIFT. 


261 


for  our  departure  I  promptly  agrsetl.  We've  pretty 
well  exhausted  the  locality." 

"  Yes,"  Jerome  assented,  absently.  He  pondered 
a  moment.  "  Or,  no,  we  haven't,  either !  We've 
never  carried  out  our  intention  of  rowing  across  just 
above  the  rapids.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  miss  that 
experience.  Do  you  think  there  is  time  for  it  this 
afternoon  ?"  He  spoke  eagerly,  glad  to  discover  a 
harmless  channel  for  his  excitement. 

"  Plenty  of  time,"  said  Stephen,  with  the  laconic 
air  of  a  man  to  whom  it  was  all  one  whether  he  went 
or  stayed. 

"  Of  course  we  must  run  no  foolish  risks." 

"  Then  it  will  be  no  fun." 

"  Oh,  if  you're  going  to  take  that  tone !"  exclaimed 
Jerome. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  set  no  value  on  my  life  ?"  cried 
Stephen,  impatiently.  "  Do  you  think  I  want  to  be 
drowned,  and  mangled  into  fragments  on  the  rocks, 
and  tossed  about  like  a  log  in  the  Whirlpool,  any 
more  than  you  do  ?  *  Take  thy  beak  from  out  my 
heart,' — get  into  the  house  and  leave  me  alone !" 

Jerome,  thus  commanded,  meekly  vacated  his  own 
garden,  and  they  did  not  meet  again  until  luncheon, 
at  which  repast,  Stephen,  if  somewhat  sullen  and 
morose,  was  at  all  events  not  rampantly  fierce. 

The  one  thing  that  had  been  impressed  upon  them 
whenever  they  had  mentioned  their  projected  enter- 
prise was  that  it  was  above  all  other  things  desirable, 
nay,  indispensable,  to  start  well  before  nightfall. 
Yet  in  spite  of  this  repeated  caution  it  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  of  a  day  that  had  been  gray  and  gloomy 


262 


ADRIFT. 


even  at  noon  when  they  found  themselves  seated  in 
a  small  boat  at  a  safe  distance  above  the  rapids  on 
the  American  side.  Their  intention  was  to  leave  the 
boat  in  Chippewa  to  be  rowed  back  next  day  by 
some  one  else,  and  then  to  walk  down-stream,  over 
the  bridge,  and  so  home.  They  were  provided  with 
an  extra  pair  of  oars,  and  believed,  as  no  doubt  many 
mistaken  men  had  done  before  them,  that  they 
had  guarded  against  every  possible  contingency  of 
danger. 

Stephen  seated  himself  in  the  stern  of  the  little 
craft,  Jerome  took  the  oars,  and  they  started.  The 
river  at  this  point  is  nearly  a  mile  broad,  with  a 
strong  current.  A  slight  rippling  elevation  in  the 
water  extends  from  shore  to  shore,  and  indicates 
with  sufficient  plainness  a  reef  below  which  it  is  cer- 
tain destruction  to  allow  one's  boat  to  drift.  The 
wind,  which  had  been  merely  a  light  breeze  all  day, 
freshened  a  little  just  as  the  young  men  set  out,  and 
when  they  reached  midstream  they  were  surprised 
and  somewhat  dismayed  to  find  the  whole  expanse 
of  water  rather  like  a  storm-beaten  lake  than  a  river, 
and  the  waves  running  quite  alarmingly  high. 

*'  They  say,"  observed  Jerome,  the  words  punctu- 
ated by  his  powerful  strokes,  "  that  waves  have  some- 
times filled  boats  and  capsized  them  along  here." 

"  They  would  have  to  be  a  good  deal  bigger  than 
these,"  declared  Stephen.  "  Halloo !  I  don't  knovv 
about  that,  after  all,"  he  added,  as  a  heavy  splash  of 
water  leaped  over  the  gunwale. 

"  Shall  we  go  back  ?"  asked  Jerome,  anxiously. 

Stephen  looked   ahead,  then  over   his   shoulder. 


ADRTFT,  263 

"No;  just  keep  right  on,"  he  said.  "We  jire  as 
near  one  shore  as  the  other." 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  in  the  least  if  it  wasn't  getting 
so  dark,"  said  Jerome,  making  the  boat  plunge 
through  the  water  like  a  live  creature.  "  We  could 
not  be  discerned  from  the  shore  if  anything  should 
happen,  and  there  would  be  no  chance  of  a  rescue." 

"  Nothing  will  happen,"  averred  Stephen.  He 
stooped  and  began  rapidly  baling  out  the  water  the 
boat  shipped  every  moment.  His  hat  blew  off  into 
the  waves,  but  he  did  not  heed  it ;  a  certain  dream 
that  had  lingered,  a  faint  and  indeterminate  memory, 
in  the  chambers  of  his  brain,  resumed  its  first  dis- 
tinctness and  became  his  whole  consciousness. 
"  Nothing  will  happen,"  he  repeated,  mechanically. 
"  We  have  almost  reached  the  Canada  shore.  We 
two  will  not  be  singled  out  of  the  hundreds  who 
cross  here  eve»y  year  for  an  accident " 

An  angry  gust  of  wind,  a  rush  and  dash  of  water, 
and  two  men  were  clinging  to  an  overturned  boat, 
with  the  wild  waste  of  the  Niagara  surging  and 
weltering  all  about  them,  and  the  dusk  of  night 
dropping  like  a  pall,  and  the  cataract  roaring  below 
as  a  famished  lion  roars  for  food. 

Three  hours  later,  Diana  was  musing  by  the  fire, 
after  the  dreariest  and  most  solitary  evening  she  ever 
remembered  passing,  when  Maggie  came  home  from 
a  visit  to  acquaintances  in  the  village.  She  burst 
into  the  parlor  with  no  pretence  of  ceremony. 

"Oh,  Miss  Forrester!  Only  think!"  she  cried, 
her  eyes  big  with  excitement.  "  It's  too  dreadful ! 
Mr.  Brooks  and  Mr.  Harvey  tried  to  row  over  to 


% 


264 


ADRIFT. 


Chippewa,  but  they  didn't  get  there,  and  they  didn't 
come  back,  and  some  men  say  they  saw  a  boat  go 
over  the  Horseshoe  Fall,  upside-down,  just  about 
dark !" 

Diana  sat  as  if  turned  to  stone.  "That  day  on 
Goat  Island  last  June,"  she  murmured,  "  I  remember 
he  said, '  Let  not  the  water-flood  overflow  me,  neither 
let  the  deep  swallow  me  up,' — and,  oh,  Maggie, 
Maggie !  to  think  God  did  not  answer  his  prayer  l" 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

"  I  flee  too  fast  for  hope  or  fond  regret ; 
A  shining  star  is  on  my  forehead  set 

Of  lonely  virginhood ;  and  yet — and  yet " 

A  Nymph  of  Dian, — Katharine  Pyle. 


Diana  hoped  against  hope  for  many  dreary  days. 
She  forced  herself  to  say  that  the  men  who  took  the 
boat  were  perhaps  not  Brooks  and  Harvey  at  all ;  or, 
granting  that  much,  it  was  highly  probable  that  they 
had  rowed  safely  across  and  had  cast  the  boat  adrift 
after  reaching  the  shore,  either  by  mischance  or  by 
design, — it  was  like  that  Mr.  Brooks  to  wish'  to  mys- 
tify people, — and  had  then  taken  the  train  for  New 
York.  She  found  no  theory  absurd  or  untenable 
which  admitted  the  possibility  of  their  being  yet 
alive. 

John  Forrester,  with  his  customary  promptitude, 


ADRIFT.  265 

telegraphed  his  horror  at  the  twofold  tragedy,  and 
in  the  same  message  inquired  whether  his  cousin  had 
left  a  will.  Diana  curtly  replietl  by  mail  that  it  was 
premature  to  talk  of  a  will  before  the  fact  of  Mr. 
Harvey's  death  was  established.  At  times  the  sight, 
the  very  thought,  of  the  river  mac';  her  tremble  and 
turn  cold;  at  others  she  listened  with  avidity  to  all 
the  suggestions  about  rocks  and  eddies  and  sub- 
terranean streams,  all  the  reminiscent  anecdotes  of 
accident  and  suicide  and  thrilling  escape,  which 
are  the  inevitable  concomitants  of  each  fresh  disaster 
at  Niagara.  She  heard  a  score  of  tales  that  proved 
how  youth,  strength,  bravery,  had  been  of  no  avail, 
of  no  more  potency  than  the  bubbles  in  the  foam. 
She  could  not  refuse  them  credence;  yet 'it  seemed 
to  her,  as  it  always  does  when  a  precious  life  is  at 
stake,  that  all  laws  must  in  this  one  case  be  sus- 
pended and  the  age  of  miracles  return. 

She  kept  this  faith  unwavering  for  just  a  week. 
On  the  eighth  morning  Dr.  Tevan  drove  up,  and 
before  he  could  leave  his  buggy  she  had  run  down 
the  walk  to  the  road,  bareheaded,  breathless,  and 
altogether  unlike  herself. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Diana!  I  came  to  tell  you 
that  they  have  found " 

"  Which  ?"  she  gasped. 

"  Well,  if  it  is  either,  it's  the  shorter  of  the  two, — 
Brooks.  You  have  lived  near  the  river  long  enough 
to  know  that  when  a  body  has  gone  over  the  Horse- 
shoe Fall,  and  has  been  ground  and  crushed  by 
thousands  of  tons  of  water,  it  is  not  very  easily 
identified.     There  is  not  a   rag  of  clothing  left  on 

M  23 


266 


ADRIFT. 


this  one,  not  even  the  shoes,  and  the  features  are 
pretty  much  obliterated." 

"  Then  you  are  not  sure  it  is  he  ?"  asked  Diana, 
white  to  the  lips. 

"  No,  and  part  of  my  errand  this  morning  is  to 
request  you  to  help  us  make  sure.  It's  a  good  deal 
to  ask ;  but  you  have  such  firmness,  such  self-con- 
trol  " 

"  It  has  been  terribly  shaken  of  late." 

"  That  you  can  be  depended  upon.  Well,  there's 
a  rin^j  on  the  little  finr:er  of  the  left  hand.  1  never 
saw  it  before,  but  if  it  really  belonged  to  Mr.  Brooks 
you  must  have  seen  it  many  a  time." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  have  seen  it,"  said  Diana. 

"Well,  then,  will  you  go  with  me  to  look  at  it? 
The  remains  are  lying  in  a  boat-house  at  Lewiston. 
We  might  have  taken  the  ring  off,  and  I  could  have 
b. ought  it  up  here  to  show  you,  but  the  hand  is 
tightly  clinched  over  it,  and  it  did  seem  as  if  the  only 
thing  which  the  water  spared  to  him  should  not  be 
removed  by  human  interferenc  ." 

"  That  was  rightly  felt,"  murmured  Diana. 

*'  I  suppose  we  can  safely  call  the  body  Mr, 
Brooki's,  but  still  one  likes  to  be  positive.  It's  ash- 
ing too  much  of  you " 

"  By  no  means !  I  will  go  ;  I  really  would  rather 
go  than  not,"  said  Diana,  to  the  physician's  astonish- 
ment. He  could  not  divine  her  actuating  impulse : 
it  was  simply  that  she  was  eager  to  do  what  would 
have  been  Harvey's  duty  had  he  survived  his  friend. 

She  went  into  the  house  and  dressed  warmly,  for, 
though  the  sun  slione,  the  morning  air  was  rather 


ADRIFT.  267 

cold,  and  then  the  two  drove  rapidly  down  to  Lewis- 
ton.  Arrived  there,  and  having  reached  the  boat- 
house,  Diana  was  constrained  to  pause,  shivering 
with  dread  of  what  she  had  to  see.  Even  the  river, 
smihng,  sparkling,  dimpling,  blue  under  the  sunny- 
blue  sky,  was  a  fearful  sight  to  her  now, — how  much 
more  so  its  lifeless  victim !  She  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  ;  Dr.  Tevan  supported  her  and  gently 
led  her  into  the  boat-house,  and  presently,  hearing 
no  sound  but  the  peaceful  lapping  of  the  waves  out- 
side, she  ventured  to  unclose  her  eyes. 

The  body  lay  on  a  rude  bier,  covered  by  a  heavy 
canvas,  beneath  whose  rigid  folds  the  imagination 
pictured  the  mere  wreck  and  mockery  of  a  man, 
with  broken  limbs,  stilled  breath,  and  pulseless  heart, 
a  creature  "  Lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame," 
less  now  in  the  scheme  of  creation  than  the  veriest 
insect.  The  canvas  was  so  arranged  as  to  expose 
one  hand,  swollen  and  discolored,  upon  which 
gleamed  the  golden  fire  of  the  topaz  ring.  One-half 
its  fabled  mission  had  again  been  accomplished, — it 
had  brought  its  wearer  speedy  death. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Brooks, — there  cannot  be  a  doubt  of 
it,"  said  Diana.  She  controlled  her  agitation  long 
enough  to  give  directions  for  the  funeral  to  the  men 
in  charge  of  the  body,  and  then,  in  an  outburst  of 
tears  and  sobs,  she  fled  from  the  place.  On  the  way 
home  they  met  the  hearse  which  the  coroner  had 
summoned,  and  the  same  afternoon  the  burial  took 
place.  There  was  only  a  simple  service  at  the  grave, 
attended  by  Diana,  Dr.  Tevan,  and  a  few  acquaint- 
ances from   the  village  who  had  heartily  liked  the 


268  . 


ADRIFT. 


dead  man  for  his  cordial  ways.  Diana  had  taken 
upon  herself  the  responsibility  of  saying  that  Mr. 
Harvey  would  doubtless  have  wished  his  friend's 
body  to  be  interred  in  the  cemetery  lot  which  was 
part  of  his  property,  and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the 
graves  of  Stephen  Brooks  and  Bella  Forrester  were 
almost  side  by  side. 

Diana  returned  from  the  funeral  wholly  forsaken 
of  her  courage.  She  now  believed,  as  firmly  as  she 
had  tried  to  believe  the  contrary,  that  Jerome  was 
drowned ;  that  his  body,  even  such  a  stark  and  hid- 
eous thing  as  Stephen's,  was  circling  about  the  Whirl- 
pool, never  to  emerge,  or  had  been  drawn  away  in 
some  underground  current,  far  beyond  the  ken  of 
man.  She  had  not  loved  him, — she  did  not  love 
him  yet, — but  the  world  seemed  unutterably  poor 
and  narrow  without  him.  Would  it  have  been  so  if 
he  had  lived  and  merely  gone  away?  she  wondered. 
Ah, no!  she  would  never  have  dared  to  let  his  image 
fill  her  mind  so  completely,  only  that  she  knew  he 
could  never  again  return  in  the  flesh. 

For  several  days  she  wandered  about  the  desolate 
house  in  a  confused  misery  that  she  would  not  con- 
fess to  be  grief,  unable  to  read,  to  sew,  to  make  plans 
for  the  winter's  study  or  visiting.  She  had  a  formless 
purpose  of  going  away  somewhere  when  Jerome's 
remains  had  been  found  and  she  had  seen  the  last 
tributes  of  respect  paid  to  them  ;  but  until  then  she 
could  not  leave  the  spot. 

She  sat  one  evening  in  her  parlor,  thinking  sadly 
how  ill  she  had  treated  the  only  person  on  earth  who 
had  ever  loved  her,  and  yet  feeling  certain  that  she 


ADRIFT.  269 

could  never  have  done  otherwise,  when  the  bell  rang 
and  in  a  moment  Maggie  appeared  in  the  door-way, 
flushed  and  startled. 

"Oh,  Miss  Forrester!" 

"  My  God !  they  have  found  his  body !"  cried 
Diana,  springing  to  her  feet. 

"  No,  no,  it's  not  that !"  the  girl  replied,  with  an 
hysterical  laugh.  She  vanished,  and  in  a  moment 
Jerome  Harvey,  white  as  a  wraith  and  with  one  arm 
in  a  sling,  stood  on  the  threshold.  Diana,  wan,  for- 
lorn, dressed  in  deepest  mourning,  stood  motionless 
at  first,  her  hand  pressed  on  her  heart;  then  she 
shrunk  slowly  backward,  with  dilating  eyes. 

"  Diana,  dearest !  Do  not  be  afraid, — I  am  not  a 
spectre,"  he  said,  with  a  reassuring  smile.  **  I  sup- 
pose you  think  I  look  like  one." 

But  Diana  was  already  across  the  room,  clutch- 
ing his  uninjured  arm,  uttering  the  happiest  little 
half-breaths  and  sobs  and  laughs,  reddening  and 
paling  in  the  same  instant,  and  conducting  herself 
quite  like  a  wild  creature. 

"  Oh,  Jerome  !  my  friend,  my  brother  !  Is  it  really 
you  ?  Are  you  sure  ?"  she  cried,  weeping  for  joy. 
"  It's  too  good  to  be  true  !  I  had  given  up  all  hope, 
— I  thought  you  gone, — gone  forever!" 

"  And  you  were  sorry  ?"  asked  the  young  man, 
delighted. 

"  Sorry'  ?  What  a  word !  It's  no  word  at  all !"  She 
clung  to  his  sound  arm  as  if  she  feared  to  lose  him 
again,  and  as  the  other  hung  helpless  he  could  only 
stoop  and  press  his  lips  on  her  soft  hair. 

"  Your  poor  arm, — is  it  broken  ?    Yes  ?     Ah,  how 


2/0 


ADRIFT. 


cruel !  Your  strong  arm,  that  helped  you  climb 
down  that  precipice  to  get  the  letter-case !"  Miss 
Forrester's  saying  "climb  down"  was  in  itself  an 
evidence  of  extreme  perturbation. 

"  I  never  thought  to  be  so  happy !"  said  Jerome, 
in  a  rapture. 

"  Poor,  poor  arm  !"  whispered  Diana.  She  longed 
to  caress  the  injured  member,  but  feared  the  least 
touch  might  be  a  hurt ;  she  failed  not,  however,  to 
indemnify  herself  for  this  forbearance  by  patting  the 
other  sleeve  with  renewed  tenderness.  "  Poor  broken 
arm  !     Will  it  never  be  any  good  again  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  am  young  enough  to  outgrow  the  in- 
jury. It  will  be  as  well  as  ever  in  a  few  weeks," 
said  Jerome,  finding  this  solicitude  delightful. 

"  And  see  my  gown  ! — black — for  you  !  Bella  for- 
bid me  to  wear  it  for  her.  I  longed  to  do  something 
for  you ;  but  there  was  so  little  to  be  done.  I  paid 
the  man  for  his  boat,  and  I  offered  a  reward  for — for 
— you  know  what ;  and  then  I  could  do  nothing  else 
except  to  dress  in  mourning.  Thank  Heaven,  it  is 
not  needed !" 

Jerome,  compelled  to  remain  otherwise  inoperative, 
kissed  her  hair  again.  "  Don't  you  wonder  how  I 
escaped  ?"  he  asked.  "  Don't  you  care  to  know  how 
it  came  about  ?" 

"  I  don't  care  for  anything,"  said  Diana,  with  a 
long,  happy  sigh,  "  except  that  you  are  here,  alive 
and  well.  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  lonely  I  have 
been !  It  has  been  as  if  all  the  world  had  gone 
away  and  loft  me! — Yes,  tell  me  all.  I  long  to  hear 
it.     But  you  are  ill  and  weak;  you  must  sit  down." 


ADRIFT.  271 

She  released  his  arm  and  went  to  push  an  arm- 
chair to  the  fire ;  the  change  of  position  broke  the 
spell  his  unexpected  presence  had  wrought,  and  re- 
called her  to  herself.  *'  I  shall  be  much  interested  in 
the  particulars  of  your  escape,"  she  said,  with  exag- 
gerated primness,  taking  a  seat  at  some  distance  from 
Jerome's. 

He  laughed  at  the  sudden  frost  in  her  tone;  it 
had  thawed  once,  and  would  do  so  again.  "  The 
boat  filled  and  upset,  and  there  we  were  in  the  water," 
he  began,  not  gilding  the  bald  facts,  as  Stephen  would 
have  done.  "  We  clung  to  the  boat  a  moment,  only 
long  enough  to  kick  off  our  shoes,  while  we  drifted 
down-stream  like  the  wind.  Then  we  struck  out  for 
the  shore ;  it  was  but  a  short  distance  off,  a  mere 
nothing  in  any  other  place,  and  even  there  it  seemed 
only  an  adventure  at  first.  But  after  a  few  minutes 
I  missed  Stephen.  I  shall  never  kno'v  now  whether 
he  was  taken  ill.  or  struck  a  rock,  or  was  simply  tired 
of  life  and  ready  to  drop  out  of  it.  I  can't  help  think- 
ing the  last  was  the  case,  poor  fellow !  I  strained 
my  eyes  through  the  ga'.hering  dusk,  I  shouted,  I 
vowed  in  my  heart  I  would  never  land  without  him. 
You  see  I  had  promised  his  mother  to  take  care  of 
him,  and  though  he  was  a  year  the  elder  he  always 
seemed  like  a  younger  brother  to  me.  Well,  I  swam 
back  and  forth  over  the  spot,  all  the  time  drifting 
downward,  till  it  was  sheer  madness  to  linger  any 
longer.  Then  I  struck  out  for  the  shore  again  with 
all  my  might ;  but  I  had  delayed  almost  too  long  for 
my  own  safety.  I  dared  not  waste  my  strength  in 
swimming  st'^aight  across  the  current;  I  was  forced 


2/2 


ADRIFT. 


to  go  with  and  diagonally  across  it.  I  fancied  the 
cataract  but  a  few  rods  below  me,  and  more  than 
once  I  thought,  '  It  is  hopeless  !  I  am  lost !'  But 
then  I  would  gather  fresh  courage  and  struggle 
madly  on,  and  at  last  I  won, — my  outstretched 
hands  touched  the  earth.  It  crumbled  horribly  as 
I  clutched  it,  and  I  was  all  but  whirled  away  again, 
for  I  was  clean  exhausted ;  but  I  dug  my  fingers 
into  it  and  catching  hold  of  the  grass  managed  to 
clamber  up.  I  had  almost  gained  my  feet  when  I 
slipped  and  fell  on  my  side,  my  feet  in  the  water 
again,  my  arm  twisted  under  me.  There  was  a  sharp 
pain  in  it,  and  it  was  harder  than  ever  to  get  upon 
my  feet ;  but  at  last  I  did  so,  and  did  not  feel  safe 
until  I  had  put  several  yards  between  me  and  the 
river.     Then  I  dropped  senseless  on  the  grass. 

"  When  I  became  conscious  again  I  perceived  at 
once  that  my  arm  was  broken  and  that  inflammation 
had  already  set  in.  I  got  up,  and  set  out  to  find  th.e 
road.  Every  fresh  stumble  in  the  dark  caused  me 
excruciating  pain,  and  when  I  reached  the  road  I 
was  quite  faint,  and  glad  enough  to  sit  down  on  a 
boulder.  A  vehicle  soon  approached,  and  I  called 
to  its  occupant  to  stop.  He  took  me  in,  and  by 
the  greatest  good  fortune  he  proved  to  be  a  doctor. 
When  I  had  told  him  my  circumstances  he  asked 
where  he  should  drive  me,  saying  that  if  my  folks 
had  heard  of  the  accident  they  would  regard  me  as 
one  raised  from  the  dead.  His  words  gave  me  an 
idea.  1  told  him  I  had  no  folks ;  the  one  friend  to 
whom  I  should  have  felt  bound  to  communicate  my 
escape  had  perished,  and  that  I  intended  to  remain 


ADRIFT. 


273 


dead  for  a  time.  He  granted  my  perfect  right  to  do 
so,  tock  me  to  his  own  house,  enjoined  strict  secrecy 
on  hi.s  mother  and  his  servant,  and  has  cared  for  me 
ever  since.  Lying  on  the  grass  in  my  wet  clothes 
aggravated  the  trouble  with  my  arm,  and  I  was  pretty 
sick ,  they  would  not  tell  me  when  poor  Stephen's 
body  was  found,  for  fear  I  should  insist  upon  getting 
out  of  bed  and  coming  over." 

"  Oh,  did  I  do  as  you  would  have  wished  in  that 
matter?"  inquired  Diana,  anxiously. 

"  Exactly.  Poor  Stephen  !  Diana,  life  seems  to 
me  like  a  great  procession ;  every  now  and  then 
some  one  drops  out  of  the  ranks  and  there  is  a 
dreadful  gap;  but  the  survivors  draw  nearer  together 
and  close  it  up,  and  comfort  each  other's  bleeding 
hearts !" 

Diana,  making  a  personal  application  of  these 
words,  blushed. 

"  Do  you  know  what  sustained  me  during  those 
despairing  moments  in  the  water?"  the  young  man 
went  on.  *'  It  was  the  thought  that  you  would  grieve 
if  I  died.  And  yet  afterwards,  when  I  was  safe,  I 
wanted  you  to  grieve,  to  feel  the  need  of  me.  That's 
why  I  stayed  away.  And  you  did  miss  me,  dearest, 
— you  cannot  deny  il.  Your  manner  is  cold  enough 
now,  I  know,  but  only  a  few  minutes  a.go  your  eyes 
were  shining  with  delight, — with  delight  and  love 
and  welcome." 

"Are  you  going  to  make  me  angry  in  this  hour 
of  reunion  ?"  asked  Diana,  reproachfully. 

**  Do  you  want  to  drive  me  away  in  this  hour  of 
reunion  ?"  Jerome  retorted.     "  There's  only  one  re- 


274 


ADRIFT. 


lation  possible  between  us,  Diana.  I  cannot  and  I 
will  not  be  your  friend,  or  a**^  thing  but  your  hus- 
band." 

"And  I  cannot  and  I  will  not  be  your  wife  nor 
any  man's  wife !"  cried  Diana.  "  What !  retract  all  I 
have  said?  Never!  You  would  think  me  silly, 
shallow,  illogical,  and  sneer  at  me  for  it  as  long  as 
we  lived." 

"  I  never  sneer  at  anything,  and  you  know  it, 
Diana,"  said  Jerome,  patiently.  "  And  I  don't  think 
you  silly  or  shallow,  but  I  do  think  it  is  wrong  of 
you  to  set  your  face  like  a  flint  against  an  institution 
which  all  mankind  esteems  admirable,  honorable." 

"  It's  not  a  question  of  all  mankind,  but  of  my- 
self" 

**  During  all  these  months  that  I  have  known  you 
no  one  has  kissed  you,  petted  you,  made  you  little 
gifts,  watched  over  your  health,  or  cared  an  atom 
about  you  in  any  way " 

"  You  state  those  mortifying  facts  with  remorse- 
less enjoyment !" 

"  Except  myself  What  holds  you  to  this  place, 
with  its  ceaseless  suggestions  of  suffering  .nd  death? 
Marry  me,  Diana.  Let  me  take  you  away  from  here 
and  make  a  new  home  for  you,  a  home  whose  very 
atmosphere  breathes  love  and  tenderness  and  peace. 
You  have  never  been  truly  happy,  dearest;  let  me 
try  to  make  you  so  !" 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  !"  pleaded  Diana.  "  I  must  re- 
fuse you,  now  and  always  !" 

"  Not  always,"  said  the  young  man,  gently. 

"Yes,  always;  just  as  often  as  you  ask  me.     But 


ADRIFT. 


275 


oh,  don't  ask  me  any  more !  It  pains  you  to  be  re- 
fused." 

"  God  knows  it  does !" 

"  And  it  seems  to  tear  my  own  heart  asunder," 
sighed  Diana.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  letting 
her  brown  eyes,  soft  and  humid,  rest  upon  his,  "  it's 
the  very  strangest  thing :  when  you  speak  to  me  a 
little  voice  in  some  mysterious  fibre  of  my  soul 
whispers  *  Yes,  yes,  yes  !'  And  all  the  while  I  know, 
as  well  as  I  know  that  I  am  living,  that  it  will  always 
be  No!  This  contest  troubles  me;  it  tires  me;  and 
so, — oh,  please  promise  never  to  ask  me  again  1" 


m 


THE   END. 


Printed  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company, 
Philadelphia. 


